


Green with Ambition

by MaskedQueen



Series: Green as Ambition, Black as Fury [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Multi, No Beta, Pre-Dance of the Dragons, We Die Like Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-12-26 03:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18274694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskedQueen/pseuds/MaskedQueen
Summary: Perhaps it was the look in her eyes. For Alicent was, privately, as fierce and stubborn as any highborn lord, though she had no title or lands to speak of. She was told, once when she asked of the daughter that ran, that Saera had ambitions to be treated as a firstborn, demanding her own share in the world. Perhaps when he looked upon her, Jaehaerys saw Alicent’s own ambitions.____Alicent Hightower's life before the Dance told in five parts.





	1. i was a child and she was a child

****

**_Alicent Hightower_ **

**_102 AC_ **

 

    With soiled linens in hand, she silently changes the rest of His Grace’s sheets as he speaks softly in a voice of broken steel.

“You need not have come so far from your happiness to tend to your old Papa.”

She smiles tenderly, though against her cheeks it feels a touch too ingenuine. “How can I be away from my happiness when you’re here, Father?” Alicent’s voice does not waver, nor does she fumble through the words. At one point, almost a name day ago, she had stumbled her way through meeting him, and then tending to him. Once, Alicent had been mortified of the thought of herself, a highborn lady (though her father had still called her _girl_ with an amused passion) acting as nothing more than a chambermaid, nursemaid, or training Maester to the King. Those days had long passed, and she settled for a reluctant compassion for old Jaehaerys.

He grabs blindly at her sleeves, though in her hands she holds his bed clothes from the evening before, and she must dodge his grip to throw them into the hallway outside of his main bed chamber into the rest of his quarters. Later, she would personally scrub the fouled gown until the yellowish stains disappeared. Alicent would spare the old man the embarrassment and shame of having the maids gossip over his soiled linen, which he fouled up more and more often.

 _A king ought to die in battle, lest he die in his own piss_. She thinks silently, though she would never say it aloud. There had been peace under Jaehaerys, the good and fair conciliator, but still a man should never have to die like this. Alicent goes to his side, abandoning the fine carved chair to sit on the edge of his bed. She’d forsaken that chair long ago when the old King had almost fallen from his bed to try to get closer to her.

“Daughters care for their papas, don’t they? I always prayed you would come back. We broke each other’s hearts, you and I, though often I think I broke yours.” His eyes are hazy, gleaming in a dulled lilac that she had never seen to be fine purple. “You were happy there-- so far away, weren’t you, Saera?”

“Yes, Father, but I’ve come back to you. Let us add no more grief to our hearts,” She endures much for him. Alicent has always wondered what it was about her that so often reminded him of Saera Targaryen, the princess turned whore.

Surely not their looks, for Alicent has mousy brown hair and sharp green eyes, whereas she was told Saera had been a violet-eyed beauty with Queen Alysanne’s beautiful light hair.

Perhaps it was the look in her eyes. For Alicent was, privately, as fierce and stubborn as any highborn lord, though she had no title or lands to speak of. She was told, once when she asked of the daughter that ran, that Saera had ambitions to be treated as a firstborn, demanding her own share in the world. Perhaps when he looked upon her, Jaehaerys saw Alicent’s own ambitions. Her own desires for something _more_. Something unnamed that she couldn’t readily describe.

Her King’s breathing slowed to a quiet huff of sleep, and she held his soft hand in between her own. He always clutched to her like a small child would, like her favorite brother Gwayne had when he was little. (She hadn’t held the hand of her other brothers. That had been Mother’s duty, but Mother had died.)

A part of her resented the king that she loved so dearly. For what reward did she get for tending to him? Alicent brought his meals, fed him, and cleaned up his messes. She dressed him, and tended to his weak and bruised legs with techniques she learned from the older women at court.

Yet, still he gave thanks to a woman that had abandoned him! Was it selfish of Alicent, who spent most of her days with him, to want the acknowledgement? Sarea Targaryen had long since gone, yet she was praised and loved.

Alicent resented him for his lost sanity. For his senile snipperings to a girl likely dead. She had given away years of her life. She had only been a girl of three and ten when she arrived! What had that Targaryen bitch given?

She had left. Princess Sarea chosen her own pleasures over this old man that must have loved her so dearly that he searched for her even now, when he was so frail and in failing health.

Alicent runs her thumb across his frail skin, feeling the heart beating beneath, and wonders for a moment when she will feel absolutely _nothing._

____

 

He has a few good days. _Good,_ Alicent thinks with mild hopelessness, _for what does the kingdom think of a hopeless old man?_

Most days the Hightower girl has to lug him around, for he is thin and lightly weighted, and she can usually guide him. Some days he can walk slowly, with a touch of grace, to his chamber pot by himself. Sometimes he needs little assistance brushing his own beard or dressing himself. Those days, so much like this day, are the few days where she believes herself to be doing something _worthy_ for her kingdom.

He took a walk today, going to the balcony off the Red Keep to wave to his people (his ever loyal smallfolk that cried at the sight of him). It gives her an unimaginable rush of hope, like a glistening river meeting the sea in a soft kiss. Jaehaerys is not so old. He could recover, and perhaps even strip her father of his power. Alicent loves her father as any child loved their parent, but he was not a man of great honor.

 _Endure it, my dear girl, for caring for the king means caring for your future endeavors_.

With a book upon her lap, she rewarded his best day in so many years with a new tale. Time flew by without her, as if she had been interred into the stone walls of his chambers, put away like an old dress folded into the cupboards. In the previous years, she developed even further the fondness for him, and even now it stood strong and loving. Alicent had no grandfather to speak of nor a mother to teach her of the world, and so she learned more sitting by his side with a book in her lap. It was a familiar thing, reading to him. Around them, the world continued on, but to the unlikely pair the world consisted only in the text they read. Alicent read the stories of Nymeria and her Ten Thousand Ships. Of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister brides.

Sometimes she had told him stories of himself when he was having bad days. She repeated things she had been told about Queen Alysanne, about their many children, about Saera. She spoke of his bravery, of his great love of peace, of his former handsomeness. _Though you haven’t lost much of it_ , said she with a wink of her eye.

“Alicent,” Jaehaerys whispers hoarsely, resting upon his bed that was stuffed with goose feathers and soft sheep’s wool. It had been a good day. He had taken a walk. “Stop reading, dear child.”

She closed her book, setting it aside. “Are you hungry, Your Grace? Do you need the chamber pot?”

“Have you seen Saera?”

“Yes, Your Grace. She went off to the kitchens to see if they night cook some… exotic foods for her-? I cannot recall what she said. The princess’s so very used to the meals of the world around us.”

Jaehaerys huffs for breath. “Good, good. She was...always so demanding as a girl. Knew what she wanted and how to get it.” His smile turns her stomach to aching for how could such a kind man have been abandoned by his own family? Most all took to death like a moth to the flame, yet still he survived. Still he grappled for life. “Do you wish to go home, Alicent?”

Her one hand _snapped_ the book shut with exaggerated force, “My Lord?”

“A young girl like you should be home with her family instead of rotting away in here with me.” The wise King murmurs, struggling to inhale a deep breath. She pressed a hand against his upper back, helping him to sit. He always breathed with greater ease when sitting up. In that moment of silence, Alicent felt the world go cold around her, like winter had come and gone across the fields of her skin, and she felt almost faint at the thought of leaving this poor man.

“If I were to go, who would read to you?”

She only read to him on his good days, when he could recognize her, or at least make the distinction that perhaps she was not his daughter Saera. At the very least, the _very least_ , he ought to be aware of that small use.

“If you were to stay…” He huffs. “If you were to stay, who will you be?”

_A relic. A relic long forgotten by the world that held so much love for the other beautiful ladies that went home to their families and learned to dance. For truly, who am I? A Hightower, yes, but I’m more an ambitious darkness than a girl of real worth. Never to be Lady of The High Tower or a princess of the Seven Kingdoms. I have these moments and nothing more._

He continues.

“A decaying man has no right to the youth of another.”

Her father’s voice was in her head. Loud and strong. _Secure our position._ But this was no longer a duty, a way of making good with the Targaryens. Instead, she took joy in his presence, as if he were of her blood, and she took refuge in these chambers where she had purpose on a bed beside spreading her legs for whatever fat rich lord decided to take her as a bride.

“You’re a fine girl.” The King says. “Stay if you wish. My Saera could use the help. She cannot read as beautifully as you.”  

Alicent offers a half-hearted smile.

 

**_________ **

**_103 AC_ **

 

Death sits heavily on her bones. The stench, the idea, the wonderment. It all weighs her down until she’s been consumed by it. At night she dreams of ragged green cloaks with streaks of reddish-brown dragging down the cloth. Alicent no longer reads any text on the Seven to her King for she fears herself that Death will walk through the doors.

The Stranger comes to her each night as a skull. Those gleaming pearly teeth clatter as they open and close, like a monstrous speech with no voice for her to hear though it speaks all the same _Jaehaerys_ , it cries silently. _Death I come for, but not for you old man. Not for you._

She has not slept well in months, and tonight all she can manage is to she wander around aimlessly through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast. It was well into the evening with only few torches lit to guide the guards that knew her much too well. A few maids giggled about in secret, leaving away from their final duties to find their lovers or see their children.

Alicent is quiet as she goes down the main corridor, for the Realm’s Delight (the sweet little Princess Rhaenyra) slept in the chambers down the East Hallway, tucked away in gowns of silk and satin. Aemma Arryn kept her chambers in the same direction, and she was known for being a light sleeper, often prone for going to the gardens in the early evening. With the flickering of a dimming flame, she guides herself to the wall, laying her head against it slowly. The wall was warm and dark, safe and rough. It took her a long moment to regain herself. The stench of foulness, both from the king’s dying body and her own sweat, choked her in the heat for she had not left the king’s side in many days. Jaehaerys cried now, when she departed from him, until she vowed to stay with him always. _Saera, Saera, please, not again. You cannot leave me again._

She ought to go home. To wake her maids and send them scurrying to the boil her water in the kitchens for a proper bath with lavender scents and flower petals. Instead, she’s shackled to Maegor’s Holdfast, though no heavy metal entrapped her wrists or ankles. Was it possible to be bound to a fading life so tightly that it might kill you too?

Alicent tried, desperately, to think of all the reasons why she ought to force her body to march to the Hand’s chambers to see her Father. She loved him, of course, but love did not guide anyone to a man like Otto Hightower. He was a man of much knowledge and very little wisdom, and he sought too much and held too little. Her mother was long dead, already embraced in the arms of a God that Alicent began to fear hysterically. Her purpose, for two years now, was King Jaehaerys.

What would she do without? Her rank, her title, her purpose was the serve him. She was his nursemaid, she tended to his laundry and his ailments-- if she wanted to be a maester, perhaps now she had the beginning skills! But Alicent could not do that for she could not do anything as a woman. She, like her father, wanted too much and had too little to match with her ideals. Ambitious, rebellious-- a graceful, elegant girl with eyes that shone with a need for real _purpose_. Tending to Jaehaerys was the first and last purpose she would have before marrying a highlord that could beat her if she displeased him or fuck whores if he so sought to, shaming the pair either way. Her only freedom was in that room with the Stranger, with Death, peering over her shoulder to read along with her.

“My lady?”

Her eyes open wearily. She was exhausted, tired beyond just sleep. Shining purple eyes stared back at her with such….

 _Light_.

“Do you need help-- Lady Alicent!”

It takes her a long moment to realize who she spoke to, and it sends ice through her veins for she takes much too long to bow low to him. Her curtsy takes her low, a hair’s breadth away from the ground, and Prince Viserys smiles when she rises.

“Lady Alicent, do you remember me?”

_How could I? You barely glanced at me that day we met, for I was a shy child and you were a handsome boy._

He’s man, yet his smile was the rising of a youthful sun that burned bright for the first time. He was tall beyond belief, towering over her with the most lovely silver-gold hair that reflected a soft orange from the flickering flames around them. It shone like a halo of fire, a crown for a Targaryen king, and Alicent felt overwhelmed at the sight of him.

“I was going to ask, Lady Alicent, if you needed me to escort you to your chambers for I thought you a maiden lost.” Prince Viserys takes her offered hand, kissing the edge of her knuckles in a way that sent a flame back through her until every part felt warm. “You’re so beautiful now--not that you weren’t before!”

Alicent cannot help herself.

She laughs.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Prince Viserys watches her face for a long moment. “Are you sad, Lady Alicent?” He stepped back from her, eyes furrowed thoughtfully. “Where are you going, my lady? It’s very late. A lady shouldn’t be alone, even here in the Keep.”

“I don’t know. I suppose I was just walking.”

The Prince beams, “Can I walk with you? Perhaps I can cheer you. My wife is asleep, and I’m restless myself.” He offers her his arm, bending it so she might slip her own into it. It’s not a gesture taken lightly for anyone that saw them may gossip of a married man with the Hand’s ambitious young daughter. That, and she was a mess of a lady now. Surely he should be embarrassed to be with a woman wearing an out of fashion dress with unplaited hair.

She gently places her arm into his, keeping a loose grip, following him as he guided them from the main chambers towards the balconies that offered a wide view of King’s Landing.

“I’m not a man of many wise words, so I won’t be good conversation.” Prince Viserys whispers to her, eyes shining with amused apologies. “But I’d like to think I’m clever enough-- or maybe it’s humor, I mean to say. I’m not a fool, but I think I can make you laugh.”

Alicent feels warm. Has the hallway, even in the dark, been so bright? Surely not! She remembers briefly that she had met this man once before, barely managing to tell him her name before the Princess Rhaenyra called for him. Alicent’s father hadn’t minded then, as he had been more concerned in her meeting Jaehaerys. She knew him, in some ways, for he often came to visit his grandfather just as she left. They’d spoke few words to each other, and Alicent wonders if he’s always been such a sunny boy. There was _warmth_ in his whole person.

“Well, let’s see, shall we?”

“There was a noble man once, very big. Very fat.” Viserys made a point to hit his own broad chest, and though he was plump, he was not so fat. “And as he came across King’s Landing, he asked of another traveler: ‘Good sir, do you suppose I can go through the gate?’ He meant would the guards let him in without any papers. The traveler looked him up and down.  And he said, ‘Of course, my lord, for if a dragon could fit through, I’m sure you can too.’”

Alicent giggles into her free hand. It wasn’t so funny for she had heard it before, but her laughter came out like the ringing of the guard bells, loud and sudden and changing. Breath leaves her as her laughter spilled out around her fingers, and she trembles from her own hysterics. Prince Viserys watches her and laughs too with mirth in his purple eyes. It was a cathartic moment of utter relief. When had she last laughed?

In all these years, this moment of goodness feels long overdue.  

“Ah! So I could be a fool yet!”

Alicent shakes, “Oh yes, my lord, the greatest of the fools. Truly, the greatest.”

Prince Viserys smiles and bows dramatically.

She feels like she’s close to home for the first time in many years. She looks up at him, this prince, this future king, and sees the light for the first time in her life.

____

 

“You seem much happier, Saera.” Jaehaerys says fondly, as if he didn’t realize he had a mouthful of food, and Alicent gave him her kerchief.

It took him a long moment to wipe his face with hands that trembled, but she let him do it still for she did not want him totally invalid. The King was allowed to do what he was still capable of.

“I feel much happier.” Alicent replies, stirring the bowl of porridge to cool it down. It wasn’t the finest meal for a king, but it was the thickest food he could manage on his weak stomach. It doesn’t bother her any as for many moons before al he would take was vegetable soup for every meal. If Alicent ever smelled it again, she might be ill.

Jaehaerys refuses the offered spoon, looking instead to keep hounding her on her new found smile.

“I know that look, daughter. Believe me, I know it. A man has caught your attention again. Who is he?”

Alicent flushed, feeling utterly caught. “No one, You Gra-- Father. It’s nothing.”

“More than nothing, sweet girl. You’ve the same look in your eyes as your mother. When she was fond of something, fond of _me_ , she had a mirth in her pretty eyes…” His eyes filled with tears, and she set aside the tray. It was not often he spoke of Queen Alysanne, the most wonderful and kind woman in the whole realm. On the occasions he did, it was often followed with so much grief that it made Alicent’s own heart feel sunken in.

“You look just like her. Just like your mother, child. Do you know I loved you well? I ought to have given you more attention. You just wanted a father and mother, but we had so many others to tend to...we had a kingdom to rule, Saera, you must understand. I wanted peace and prosperity. I wanted it for you, for your brothers and sisters. I sought it so much I neglected you all.” He coughed then, choking on his own breath until he was doubled over his side, and she clung to him. Her hand pressed against his back until he stopped coughing, until he flipped back to lay on his soft goose feather pillows. She stroked his cheek to rid him of his tears.

“Rest,” She said gently. “And I will tell you of the man I have seen.”

Alicent will speak of the Prince, though she will not say his name. She will speak of their first meeting, a month ago, and how he made her laugh until her cheeks with as red as the dragon on all the banners. Of how he invited her for dinner the next day, allowing her the great pleasure of meeting his wife and child (Aemma Arryn and Princess Rhaenyra). She’ll tell him of his kindness, of his radiating happiness and jolly nature, of his lack of wisdom but abundance of cleverness. Oh, most of the time she will spend on telling Jaehaerys how they so often meet. Alicent adores their walks, always taking a bit of time away from Jaehaerys to spend time with him. She won’t tell.him that’s why she leaves near noon, but she will tell the King how often she laughs when strolling through the gardens. How often she feels pulled away from the Stranger into the loving sigh of the Maiden when he stands near her. A _princely boy_ , she’ll tell him, with so much great love in him for everyone. For his family, for smallfolk, for everyone around him.

But first he must finish his porridge.

And silently, she will keep to herself how often she dreams of Viserys and how often she thinks of his lips against hers.

 

____

 

“I am not a singer,” Viserys tells her, already two steps ahead of her with his hand in his daughter’s small grip. He’s mid-conversation with his daughter, something about minstrels, nd mummers, and singing too.

Princess Rhaenyra scoffed, “Of course not, Papa! Everyone knows that, we’ve heard you try. Mama sings well enough for both of you.” She gives Alicent an exasperated stare, throwing her hands up. “Lady Alicent, can you sing well?”

She thinks on it for a moment, “No, I suppose not, Your Highness.” Alicent knew not if she could for her talents were mostly in sewing, dancing, and now washing. Had she ever had lessons in singing? She faintly remembers singing about a bear as a little girl with her own mother, but that seemed so long ago.

“My mother can sing beautifully.” The Realm’s Delight beamed, full of such fire and excitement that it felt contagious. Alicent smiles back at her, hurrying in her step to keep up with the child.

Viserys let go of her hand and huffed to breath. “You’re much too fast, Little Rhae!”

She laughs joyfully,  “For I am a dragon and dragons are fast!”

Alicent has never seen a dragon. She’s read stories of them to Jaehaerys, who himself was once a dragon rider, and she was particularly amazed by Balerion the Dread. It amazed her to think that Viserys once bonded with such an ancient thing. How extraordinary! She mourned for it momentarily. Balerion had died years before she had the chance to see it.

“How old are you, Lady Alicent?”

“Five and ten, Princess Rhaenyra.”

The girl’s eyes shone with delight. “Truly? I’m six. How much apart are we in age?”

“Only nine years, Your Highness.”

“Only nine years.” She repeated. “You’re very young, just like me! When I am older, you can be one of my ladies and tend to me. We shall be friends, Lady Alicent.”

“Are we not friends now?”

“Of course!” chirped Rhaenyra. “Great friends.”

Viserys caught her eyes. _Great friends_ , he mouths to her with a playful wink of his eye. He grabbed his daughter’s hand again and tossed her into the air as she skipped.

She doesn’t understand the rush of heat in her belly or why she feels the need to blush and look away quickly.

____

 

Jaehaerys dies with his hand in hers. There’s a book open in her lap, and she’s halfway through the tale of how Lann the Clever tricked his way into getting Casterly when she notices how his chest sits.

His breathing had long been faint, but her eyes went from his mouth to chest several times before it finally occurs to her that she sees absolutely nothing. There’s nothing. Alicent throws aside her book, struggling not to cry in outraged panic as she ripped her fingers away from his warm hand to feel at his chest for the familiar beating of his heart.

There’s nothing.

Nothing.

Her King has died.

Alicent screams. She screams and screams until her voice is hoarse and her knees give out. The guards come in immediately, one coming to her side to get her off the floor. He lifts her out of her shock, taking her away to the chair across the room. The other man takes off running, going to take the news to the Hand of the King and Prince Viserys. She ought to go with. She ought to run along to her dearest person, to tell him herself that his grandfather has died.

Or she ought to go to Father, to tell him not to rush to keeping his title. _Can you not see_ , she wants to scream at him though she has not yet seen his reaction. _Do you know not know that my only friend in this world has died. The world has lost a king among men, and still you care only for securing your own position!_

She knows her Father. She knows what he will do.

The man, the nameless guard, leaves her. Alicent wants to cry out _no! no! Stay! Leave me not with this dead man!_ Her voice is caught and he leaves. She doesn't know herself. She doesn’t know what she ought to do or what she will do. The moment she walks from these doors to the outside world, her gown will turn to white in a matter of days as a husband took his place beside her at the Sept. She was not yet ready, but Jaehaerys had abandoned this world to live again with his wife and children.

Her eyes do not look across to the bed where Old Wise King Jaehaerys lay still warm. Poor old man and poor Alicent! He leaves the world as she fully enters it! Alicent knows her Father is scheming already to find her a fine man to marry. There’s a particular boy she’s heard whispers about, Laenor Velaryon. Just a child of nine, but still a contender for the Throne. During the Great Council almost two years before, many lords had spoken for Laenor. Otto Hightower looked ever further to keep his grip on the kingdom, even if he must wait years and years. Fuck him! If Viserys was not married, she would be offered to him naked on a silver platter.

 _Let my thoughts rest_ , _let me mourn what I can and leave the future grief to the future._ She rises to go to her dying-- no, no _dead_ King as she always had. Alicent drops to her knees before the bed, taking his cooling hand in hers.

“Be happy,” She prays. “And give my love to Queen Alysanne. Make amends with Saera if she is there with you or when she arrives, for I was not her. Your Grace, I--”

Tears flooded her eyes as a sob ripped from her throat, and she was forced to stop. It all seemed to attack her at once. Her father was scheming, her king was dead, and Viserys would be crowned soon. Alicent wiped her tears frantically, trying to even out her breathing.

“I love you, as a constant piece of my life that cannot be replaced. I’m...I’m ever….You did so much good for your subjects and for me. I only hope I did the same for you.”

He was not blood. He was not family by marriage. He was her king, and yet still he was like a grandfather to her when his mind was with him. She had spent so long with him. For this to happen was horrifically sudden even though it was a long time coming. She ought to have prepared herself better. She knew he was soon to die, but did it feel too soon?

She weeps openly and without end.

She weeps until her father runs into the room, shoving her aside onto the floor because her body would _not_ move, and he screamed for her to leave. Father holds a hand to the King’s face, crying out for those around them in ingenuine distress: _Truly our King is dead!_

Viserys turns to her with glossy eyes, “Where is his crown?”

Alicent lays where she’s been shoved, angry beyond belief and grieving. Viserys sees he will get no answer and tenderly approached the bed where the king lay dead. Princess Rhaenyra follows after him, always a small pale shadow at his side. King Jaehaerys has died and not yet cooled, and already men came into the exploit him! If Viserys so desired a crown, let him have a crown commissioned! Jaehaerys ought to be buried with his own crown, and she’d fight for it if she must.

"We must change the way of his end, Your Grace. He cannot have died reading of Lann the Clever. It might imply favoritism to the Lannisters." She hears her father tell the new king. "Something by a Septon-- Barth's  _Unnatural History_ Perhaps."

Before she could rise to scream at them, to save his true memory before it's defiled by lies, two strong arms grasped her by her waist, pulling her back to her feet.

“Hush now, girl, all men die. Can you walk?”

She looks up into vibrant, charming eyes of pretty lavender, a touch too light for a Targaryen. Alicent doesn’t know who he is-- does, she? He’s strongly features, handsome and dashing with silver-gold hair that hung around his shoulders. The sigil of House Targaryen was stitched into the collar of his black shirt…

“You’re...Daemon-- Your Highness!” She whispered,  wiping away her tears for what would a prince think of a woman weeping? He was the grandson of King Jaehaerys! Any tears shed ought to be his, not her who had no blood with them. “Your...Your Highness, I apologize.”

Prince Daemon adjusted a lock of her hair out of her eyes. It was damp with tears.

“They’ll do what they want. My brother’s not so dull, but your father’s much too sharp.”

He slung his arm around her, and perhaps if she was better in mind she might have protested that. She might have thought of the gossips and the repercussions, but Jaehaerys was dead. Her own Father barely acknowledged her in favor of his own power, and Viserys sought a crown he did not deserve.

No man would ever match the goodness of Jaehaerys, not even Viserys.

“I’m sorry.” She weeps. “I’m sorry. I cannot stop crying.”

Prince Daemon leads her away, “I can see why, Lady Alicent, for you’ve been his caretaker for so long. But you look to be a strong girl. You’ll be alright.” He took them down the back staircase, avoiding the peeking eyes of servants going about their business. “That is your name, isn’t it? Alicent?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Daemon,” He replies sharply. “Come now, I’m not so cruel as the world perceives me. I’m hot of temper sure, but I’m not one for such formalities with pretty girls.”

“Of course, Your-- Daemon.” The word sits chalky against her tongue, for her head spun at all that’s happened in a manner of an hour. Her king has died, his crown’s being taken when it ought to be burned with Jaehaerys, and Daemon Targaryen already rid himself of all formalities with her.

“Tell me, how old are you?”

“Five and ten.”

“Not so old then.” His smirk contrasts with the always shining grin of his brother. His brother’s presence felt like warm sunshine against her skin, like a fine place in the sun to rest with the warmed grass against her palms. She didn’t know what Daemon feels like-- well, not yet. Alicent knew it certainly wasn’t sunshine though.

Another wipe of her face, and he deems her acceptable. “A beautiful lady shouldn’t cry.” He notes thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side. “Not that if soils your appearance any. It makes your eyes more green. You’d look nice a green gown, I would think.”

“I--”

What does she say to that? What does she say to any of this? It had been a good day. It had been a good day, for he had recognized her. _Alicent_ , Jaehaerys had called to her. _Alicent, read to me. None read so well as you._ Now, he would heard no other. Yet, now she was halfway to her chambers, escorted by a man known for whoring and begrudging his wife. And to be honest, she was charmed by him for certain.

It all become too overwhelming. Too much for her. She took a step away from him, half hysterical.

“I need to go.” She says gently. “I can find my way to my chambers alone.”

Turning away, she fled down the hallway, hoping he did not follow her.

He didn’t.

 

____

 

The days following, Alicent wore black.

She wore black when she was alone, when she was at court, at her old King’s funeral. Often she cries pitifully over many things. Alicent Hightower had never much did that as a girl and vowed never to do it more as an adult, but these are miserable times which are the only exception.

She had wept when her Father announced he’s been made Hand of the new King. She wept when he tells her Laenor Velaryon has no prior betrothal, and his mother looks for a strong bride. _And who could be stronger than a Hightower?_

Today, she wears black and weeps as her King burns. She weeps for her lost friendship with him. For a lost safety. For his lost daughter that she so terrible took the place of.

Standing beside her, Prince Daemon smiles.

“You look like a Targaryen bride.” He tells her. “We dress our brides in black.”

Alicent stares ahead and says nothing.

Those words feel like a curse.

 

_____  



	2. too dear for my possessing

__

_ A girl with long brown hair swung her legs over the edge of the balcony, steading her arms against the stone beams that supported her back.  _

_ “And what are you doing, girl?”  _

_ She turns slightly, smiling. “Father!” _

_ He stepped forward dragging a hand against his face. Lines seeped deep into the sun-tanned skin, and she saw the exhaustion in his gaze. _

_ “Working hard today, Father?”  _

_ “As hard as a man can to go up a peg on the ladder.” Otto Hightower grasped her waist, forcing her backwards so she wasn’t so far on the edge. “What’ve I told you about sitting up so high, Alicent? If you want to have air, sit in the breezeway or go to a lower floor.” _

_ “I like feeling tall. We’re higher than anything else in the world. Have you ever thought of that? Even little birds can’t fly higher. Even dragons don’t go this high.”  _

_ Otto chuckled at her pride. “You’re right, my dear, dragons go much higher. Just be careful. It’d be a shame for you to fall from this height. You’ll be dead before you hit the ground.” _

_ There’s a moment of silence. _

_ “Mother was looking for you,” Alicent frowned. “You weren’t in your solar. She cried again, so then Gwayne cried, and then the twins had to carry on and on about it. Where were you?”  _

_ With defeat, he sighed. “The library, my girl.” Otto placed his hands against the large finely cut stone, and swung his own legs over so he could sit. The whole world seemed so much smaller here. “Learning. No matter how old you are, you can always learn more. Education, my girl, intelligence, that’s what’ll rise you up in the world. It’s why I work so hard-- to advance our family.” _

_ “So you can be on the council of the King?”  _

_ “Aye, you’re a smart girl. Kings need men like me. Our King Jaehaerys is wise, but to be on the council you must be wiser. Better than even a ruler. A king would not have a council if he was enough for the kingdom on his own.”  _

_ Alicent adjusted her skirts, wrinkling the pretty fabric between her fingers. “I see.” The girl, a child of eight, looked across Oldtown. “Wisdom won’t make Mother stop crying. You’re breaking her heart being gone so very much. I don’t like it when Mama cries.”  _

_ “Helaena is a tender-hearted woman just as all Tyrells are. That’s why their sigil is of a flower. You’re not like your mother, though, Alicent. You’re not a delicate flower. You’re a strong stone tower.”  _

_ Alicent sighs softly.  _

_ “If I was without boys, I could be just as pleased with you. You’re going to do great things, Alicent, I can see it in your face. You ought to be a queen or a princess, not the daughter of a second son.” Otto’s voice became a bitter sneer, for his true anger was at his own position. Such an ambitious man limited by a brother’s rank. He would never be Lord of Hightower or the Port or anything more than a second son. He turned to the girl with the long brown hair.  _

_ “I won’t make your mother cry as much. She’s a good woman, but she settled. She settled on a man like me. On a second son. A Tyrell could have done better. She didn’t reach high enough.”  _

_ “Mama says she married you for love.”  _

_ “That was her mistake. Daughters are lower than even second sons. But they can marry better. They can have those first sons. They can marry those first sons. Always reach higher, Alicent. Always reach higher.”  _

 

_ __ _

  
  


**_104 AC_ **

 

A girl of sixteen, somewhere in King’s Landing, has been deflowered and impregnated by Daemon Targaryen. That girl was  _ not  _ Alicent Hightower. 

For the Lady Alicent was a good, noble, and wonderfully honorable young woman that would wait for a decent marriage. Of course, Daemon oft tried to bring her to bed without saying it, offering a skillfully placed hand upon her shoulder, a soft brush against her hips when they danced at court. But Alicent is ever mindful of him as she knew him  _ too _ well. Cut-purses, whores, and gamblers were the company of Prince Daemon, and she wanted none of that dishonor on her. 

(She had enough dishonor on her name by the  _ implications  _ of her lengthy time with Jaehaerys.  _ She did more than read to him _ , she heard one of her ladies whisper once while folding her laundry. Alicent gave her a small wage and dismissed the maiden that same day.)

It’s whispered around her. The Hand’s ambitious daughter strived for a better position, even being a mistress to the Targaryen brothers.  _ Do you suppose they share her?  _ No, no Alicent could not bear to hear it. 

Neither could her Father. He’d forbidden her to speak to Daemon, often quarreling with him to the point of shouting. Perhaps they might have fought if the Kingsguard hadn’t intervened. Her father still went too far, fought too hard, and managed to get Daemon removed from his position of Master of Coin. When Father saw them dancing together at a feast (barely a dance for they began much too late) he grew furious and somehow managed to get Daemon removed from Master of Laws, too. 

Though she would not bed him, Alicent mourned the time lost away from the prince. His brother Viserys, still a close companion of hers, was all sunshine. He was jolly and kind and  _ wonderful  _ in every way she could think of. He was the gentle sting of the sun against her skin on a warm summer’s day. His company, his smile, his personality brought her great happiness and pleasure, but it didn’t bring any sparks of warmth into her belly anymore. 

Privately, Alicent thinks she could have learned to love him if he hadn’t been a married man and a father. She could have fallen so deeply in love with those gentle eyes and that dimpled smile. The fondness she bears for him now would have been multiplied until they were the happiest and most loving wedded match. It cannot happen now, of course, as he had the beautiful Aemma Arryn with her pretty Valyrian looks. The Queen had such a great kindness and gentleness to her that Alicent often felt unimaginably guilty for imagining a life with Viserys as  _ her  _ husband, removing Aemma from her fantasies entirely. 

In many ways, Alicent admired the Queen’s cool temper and graciousness. Many women would be furious or unnerved by their husbands having unmarried women as their companions, but Queen Aemma never bore Alicent any animosity. Perhaps she could see Alicent’s great and intense love was directed to the second son of Baelon. 

Daemon was fire and freedom and-- and he was every part of herself that she did not know yet. He wasn’t the farthest up she could reach for, but he was the only one reaching back for her. He looked at her as if she were the only woman in the world, though she knew he had taken to the whores of local brothels. Daemon risked his position for a dance with her. He managed to find reason to speak to her, no matter how short of a time. He spoke openly with her, as if she were his equal in mind, and Alicent wonders if her foolish youth was the reason her heart beats so loudly when he’s near. 

She wants his touch against her skin. She wants his enamoring gaze and his sharp smirk-- Gods knew she melted when he looked at her with those beautiful lavender eyes that always darkened with lust or amusement. Alicent found him dashing, humorous, and always had good conversations with him. Perhaps his faults could be overlooked.

It’s because of her great love for him that her sea green eyes scanned the men atop their horses, searching the different armors until a gleaming black caught her eye. Alicent sat atop the second highest dais, second only to the royal family that sat almost twenty feet away in a boxed seat. Beside her, her younger brother Gwayne pinched her arm. She swatted him away. 

“Stop!”

Gwayne looked at her in wonder. “Father said you weren’t supposed to do  _ that _ .” He pressed his fingers against her cheek, just under her eye. “Give the Prince those looks. He has a wife, Alice, and he isn’t the man of all those love songs. He’ll bring you down with him. You know he drinks and gambles and--”

Alicent interrupts him, shoving away his hand. “How old are you?” 

“Pardon?”

“How  _ old  _ are you?” 

“Two and ten. You know that. Why?” 

“You’re a boy still, Gwayne. A little boy. I’m a woman. When you’re my age or the twins’ age, you can offer your word on such matters. Until then, listen only faintly to Father. He does  _ not _ know everything.” Alicent turned her head, looking away. She began clapping her hands when she heard the drums begin, cheering alongside the other women. Daemon’s steed was a rich shade of auburn, and Alicent clapped again when he rode by her. His lips had been curled into a knowing smirk, and he’d bowed his head to her. 

Daemon hadn’t asked for her favor, but she didn’t feel the slightest bit offended by that. In the end, with her father watching from beside the king, that was a wise decision for her father had much pull with the newly crowned King. Alicent did not yet know if she had any influence with Viserys, though she silently believed she did. In time she would find out, but for now it was a game of chance that she would not risk. 

“Father said Prince Daemon only wants you because you’re a maid. He says that Daemon’s greatest pleasure in all the world is deflowering a maiden.” 

Alicent stands, furious. “ _ You _ are a fool if you believe me to be so  _ loose _ that I would do such a thing without being married. And Father is a fool if he believes Daemon wants me  _ only  _ for that.” She flees away from his, going towards the stands where the lowerborn nobles sat. 

The whole conversation made her feel sick to her stomach, as if she’d ate a whole tray of honey cakes by herself. (Alicent had done that once when she was nine and gotten sick all over Mother’s lap. Mother hadn’t been upset or angry with her, only stroked her hair. Alicent misses her mother beyond belief.) She was a woman. Six and ten was old enough for her to make judgements of her own, and she believes Daemon Targaryen loves her. He loves her so greatly that he desires her above all else, wishing to come into her bed. 

Alicent isn’t a fool. He is married to Rhea Royce, his “ _bronze_ _bitch_ ”, and Viserys had refused to allow the union to be annulled. But perhaps he would change his mind if it was Alicent that begs his freedom for she would gladly take Daemon as her husband. Even if they must be wed in secret, she was sure everything would work in her favor. 

Alicent nearly fell over her skirts in her haste, caught in her own thoughts, blindly flailing to find purchase before she plummeted off the edge of the stand. “Great Gods!”

She grasped the edge of the wooden bannister, steadying herself. Silently, she prays nobody had seen her. It would do little for an already soiled reputation. Father would learn of her gracelessness, her carelessness, and she was sure her brother would tell him of her fury.

Father understood  _ very little _ of women and love. He understood his books. He could correctly tell her the lore and fact of every House in Westeros, how many men those Houses could bring to banner, or how many stones were used in building Maegor’s Holdfast. He knows a great deal about money (gold and silver and the like) and how it ought to be spent. He knows many things, but he did  _ not  _ know his daughter Alicent. He did not know what it was to love, to find freedom.  _ Ambitious girl with no ambitions! _ He often cried out, as if love were not a great enough ambition. 

He did not realize it was not all love. It was freedom. How often did he get to be happy? How unfair was it for him to climb to the top of the metaphorical tower until he sat beside  _ two  _ kings when she had only two choices for her life? Wife or spinster. Mother or barren. 

It didn’t seem fair. It didn’t seem  _ fair _ . Second son, second son, it didn’t matter. The cock between his legs was enough for him to rise. If he so chose, he could take the black and rise in rank that way. He could become a maester, studying at a Citadel that would refuse her entrance. What could she do? The only thing she could rise to was motherhood. She could be the lady of a fine castle, the wife of a noble lord! At the very least, Alicent should get to choose which one! 

Daemon is the Prince of Dragonstone, above even Princess Rhaenyra. He had told her so himself. Daemon  _ knew _ that Viserys would soon formally declare him heir. How much farther could she go? Father ought to be pleased. Prince Daemon loved her. He would free her. He would make her something  _ more _ , give her more power than even her father. Perhaps that’s what terrified him. 

His own child might be able to push him a peg down on the ladder. She might have influence. She might be…

Be more than a daughter. Be more than a wife or a mother. She could wield influence. 

And men were afraid of a woman with power. 

 

_ __ _

 

_ Mother braids her daughter’s brown hair.  _

_ It was straight and mousy, but thankfully it looked more like hers than it did Father’s. Gwayne looked like Father, as did their older brothers Gareth and Alester. Father’s hair was straight and black. His eyes are a deep brown.  _

_ Mother had said once that she’d fallen those eyes that reminded her of cinnamon. There were no brown flowers in Highgarden, which had always made her so upset.  _

_ “I always thought it was so strange that we Tyrells had brown hair if there were no flowers like that.” Mother pressed a warm hand against her cheek. “Brown eyes, too. Luckily, you were born with my grandfather’s green eyes, like a stem. It seems so strange, you know? Lannisters have their golden mane and the Starks have the grey eyes of a wolf’s coat. We have nothing. My House, Tyrell, has a golden rose, and we don’t even have yellow hair. We aren’t flowers.”  _

_ “But we’re growing strong, aren’t we?” Alicent asks cheerfully. “You and I can be any flower we wish to be, Mother. Roses are so pretty. I should think that’s why gowns were made-- you know, so we can be anything we wish to be.” _

_ Mother stands and turns to her very slowly. She kneels beside her daughter, brown eyes shining in a hidden grief. Father often neglected her for the library or his solar or sometimes to travel to King’s Landing. Alicent heard her cry so very often when Father left, and she supposed it was because Mother loved him so deeply. However, Otto Hightower was not so moved. Sometimes she wondered if he had loved Helaena Tyrell or if he had loved her dowry.  _

_ “I could have married above my station. I could have been the bride of a Targaryen or a Redwyne or a Baratheon.” She says hauntingly, as if she were speaking to someone else, and it sounded more like a eulogy. “I could have been anything, my sweet girl. Helaena Baratheon. Helaena Targaryen. Now, I am nothing. I am not a rose. I am not happy. I was in love, and now I am not happy.” _

_ Alicent doesn’t mean to say it. “I don’t make you happy, Mother?”  _

_ Mother blinks away tears, flinching back as if her daughter had struck her as hard as she could. She smiled widely, though it didn’t look genuine to her daughter.  _

_ “Of course you do, sweetling. Gwayne, Gareth, you, and Alester are my life’s greatest joy. Especially you. You’re a sweet girl, Alice, but remember at all times that you’re more than any man that wants you. You can love and love and love, but sometimes love leaves you defenseless against great pain. Sometimes it strips you bare and takes away from you...takes the parts you that did not know could be taken. It takes the warmth from your sheets and the kindness from your soul. It picks you dry like a crow to a corpse. In the end, your greatest love will be your children, but for their sake, choose their father wisely. For your own sake, choose a man wisely.” _

 

_ __ _

 

The King calls for her private audience. 

Alicent wears a green dress. It was her favorite color. Green was the color of her eyes. 

Of the sea that  _ she _ could see from her rooms early in the morning, never shining blue, but always seafoam green with the softest glints of diamonds under the ocean.

The color of her mother’s fine gown, styled with elaborate white trimming, the day of Alicent’s fifth name day. There had been such celebration for Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys had been on progress close by and had been invited. They attended. Many things had happened that year, as it had been the same year that Queen Alysanne had last flown her dragon. Alicent mostly remembers the flapping of her mother's green dress in the wind. She remembers the beautiful, elegant queen. Alicent remembers wishing so dearly to be so beautiful and graceful. When the good Queen Alysanne had learned of the occasion, she generously brought forth a bolt of light green fabric as a gift for Alicent.

There’s much to be said about that particular color, though musing on it doesn’t bring about nostalgia as much as it did unending heartbreak. Green was the eye color her mother so wished for, like polished emeralds. The color of the ribbons she wore in her hair as a girl.

It’s also the young king’s favorite color. 

Viserys smiles when he sees her. 

“Alicent!”

She drops low, keeps her head down. “Your Grace.” Her courtesies are unmatched. She learned from the most wonderful teacher. Viserys ushers her back up, smiling. 

He sits, motioning her to the seat across from him. “I haven’t seen you since the tourney. How have you been?” His eyes are so dark, so different from the light purple of his brother. Alicent tries so hard not to mourn what could have been, what she could have felt. He was a friend, but nothing more. She felt nothing more. “You look so lovely today-- while it’s on my mind, I ought to give you your own allowance for having to put up with your father. He’s a one of a kind man, isn’t he? Smart man, but not so amusing. He’s much too serious.”

“He’s always been like that, Your Grace. Don’t mind him too much.” 

Viserys sighs, “If only I had your patience, Alice, for maybe then I would know what to do. He will not get along with my brother. Well, not that my brother is trying to get along with him. It’s just frustrating.” He picked up a goblet, taking a gulp of  _ Arbor Red _ . “I’d be better off with you as my Hand, Alicent, because at least you could handle Daemon. They fight like dogs! I ought to ask that Criston Cole to knock them both off their high horse.” 

Alicent tries to hide her smile. She truly does, but she can’t help it. It always feels so normal here, with Viserys. Even with Daemon, here’s always an underline. Always a moment where she briefly thinks perhaps he truly did just want her maidenhead. Of course, she always fought those thoughts away, but with Viserys there was never anything. He was too genuine, too much of a people pleaser to ever offend her or make her feel like she was anything less than important. 

“Oh come now. You can laugh! My brother and your father are pricks!” Viserys chuckles, his whole body heaving, and she laughs too. It was infectious with him, like a fire that spreading through a wooden house. “You saw him, didn’t you? That new man?”

“Ser Criston?” 

Of course Alicent had! Everyone had seen the charming man with his night black hair and fine green eyes. Ser Criston Cole had bested Daemon at both jousting and the melee, much to Alicent’s chagrin, and had given the laurel to Princess Rhaenyra. (A part of Alicent had been sure Daemon would win and crown her Queen of Love and Beauty.) 

She hadn't been too impressed by him. 

“My daughter begs me for to make him her sworn sword.” Viserys rakes his hand over his face. “What do you think? I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know this man well enough to raise him up so high. Especially not with my girl, but I don’t want to deny her.” 

“Did you discuss it with your wife?” 

“It’s different speaking with Aemma. She’s a very smart woman, but she’s too inclined to please Rhaenyra. We both are, I think. She’s just so precious to us.” Viserys murmured thoughtfully, and then set aside his goblet. He did not offer her any wine, for he was aware her father did not allow her but a small sip on special occasions. “I always value my wife’s opinion, but not when it comes to our daughter. Tell me, what do you think?” 

“I think he’s skilled, Your Grace. He’ll protect her well. And he seemed eager to please her so he ought to be a good companion.” Alicent fiddled with the edge of her sleeves, not quite meeting his gaze. Her opinion was valued even above the Queen’s. The Queen! She felt unimaginably young them, wielding such a little power and feeling all the weaker for it. 

“Rhaenyra will be pleased.” His voice lowered and he leaned close to her. “So have you heard of Misery?” 

“Misery?”

Viserys frowns deeply, “Mysaria, I believe, but they call her Misery at the brothel. Your father brought her to my attention. It seems my brother wants to bring her with him to Dragonstone. She’s his new favored mistress.” 

“To Dragonstone…?”

_ If I thought my heart might have been ripped apart more, I would have done it myself to get it over with!  _ She thought as grief filled her. For whoring was one thing, but to take a prostitute to Dragonstone was not done lightly. It was unfair! Not right!

Alicent swallowed down her displeasure, smiling. “Well let us hope she’s his last mistress. One ought to be enough for a man.” She smoothed her fingers down over her dress again, trying not to break down into tears over a foolish man and her own foolish ideals. 

“I don’t believe a man should need a mistress if he has wife. Why would I need another when I have Aemma? A happy wife gives you the best advice and the wisest thoughts. He does not like Rhea Royce, but there’s no reason to take another woman to bed. It’s not right. It’s not right.” Viserys drummed his fingers against his chair, shaking his head. “Enough about Daemon. I spend every hour hearing about him from your father. Tell me, how are you doing? Are you happy?”

“The happiest in all of King’s Landing.” Alicent replies steadily, though she feels ill to her stomach. How dare Daemon take a mistress to Dragonstone? He ought to be in the Vale with his wife! If Alicent could not he his bride, then he ought to be with his true wife, the Lady Royce. It was not fair! It was not…

Childish anger welled in her chest. She had taken to him like a fly to honey! Daemon had a sweet tongue and haunting eyes, and he had charmed her. He had charmed her. Alicent had wanted him to take her to bed as her husband, but it seemed he was too loose for her. 

She felt too young then. Too much of a child. For only children were stupid held such outlandish ideals of love and romance. He had not loved her. He doesn't love her. No more than he loves anyone else. 

Viserys chatters. She laughs and jests with him for when she’s smiling, it almost feels like her heart hasn’t been ripped from her chest. And Viserys, for all his great perception, does not point out how her laughter doesn’t sound genuine. 

 

**_________ **

**_105 AC_ **

 

When Viserys announced Queen Aemma was with child, the whole realm cheered for them. Alicent had too, offering her greatest congratulations as she braides their daughter’s hair. 

Princess Rhaenyra often says there’s no woman in the entire world that can braid so well as Alicent Hightower. The older girl weaves ribbons of black and red into the child’s silver-gold curls on a daily basis, as if she were a maid of the Princess. In truth, she might be, but she does not know. Her position at court was a matter of discussion for her father said she was too high of rank to serve as a lady to anyone other than Queen Aemma. 

However, Queen Aemma had no position in her household for the Hightower girl, though Viserys had asked for her. (A part of her wonders if there was truly no spot for her or if Aemma could not bear to be around the woman her husband so often spoke to.)

Alicent knows not what to do with herself other than wait for one of the Targaryens to call on her.  _ Ambitious girl, ambitious girl!  _ But what ambitions did she truly have? She would not be Queen. She would not be a Princess. She would not even be Lady of High Tower! 

She finds a purpose this day, the chilly morning after the announcement, when Daemon Targaryen storms into the apartments of the Hand. 

“She’s with child! I am the Prince of Dragonstone, and yet she is to have another. He did this on purpose! He knows he will have no sons, but he still tries to rob me!”

Alicent frowns. “You ought to be happy.” Her fingers curl over her cloth, running a thumb against the stitches. It will be a gift for the Queen’s new child. “You’ll have another niece.” 

“Or nephew.” 

“An heir for the throne.” Alicent watches him from the corner of her eye as he paced the room. His golden cloak shined in the light from the windows, and she frowned deeper at how the color clashed against his black armour. 

Daemon turns to her sharply. “I do not need your coldness because I decided to fuck a whore.” He snaps, throwing a hand in the air. “She will be the favorite for now, but you will be my favorite for the rest of my days.” 

“Don’t compare me to a  _ whore _ , Your Highness. I do not want to be a favorite.” Alicent hisses back, setting aside her sewing. She threw it back into her wicker basket, rising from her seat. “What shall I say? Yes, I too wish for the death of an innocent babe? Do you want me to pray for the Queen miscarry? I shan’t do it. I’m not so hateful.” 

“Because you have nothing to lose. I’m the heir to the throne. I’m the Prince of Dragonstone.”

“You’re the Lord of Flea Bottom.” Alicent replies unkindly. “The Lords of Westeros would rather have the Princess Rhaenyra be Queen than let you be King.” She closes the distance between them, standing several inches shorter than him. “Do you know what they say about you? What they say about _ me  _ because of you?” 

Daemon didn’t seem to mind her last few words as much as her first. “Will you not support me, Alicent?” He shouts, his temper rising. “Of all people, you should want me to rise! Fuck them that call me Lord Flea Bottom!”

“Oh  _ believe _ me, I’m sure you have fucked them. Most of the ones against you are in brothels.” Alicent says back hotly, her own temper flaring. She took a step away from him, suddenly aware of what she was doing. She was alone in secluded chambers with a hot-tempered man that could get away with most anything as a prince. Alicent had no need of maids this early and her guards had been sent away for a morning prayer at the Sept.  

Alicent had never felt or seen his temper before. It terrified her. She took another step backwards. He followed. 

“I cannot understand you, girl!” He shouts. Alicent flinched away. “You flirt with me, but insist you are pure and innocent. You grow angry when I have Mysaria, but will not let me have you. You want me as I am, but will not help me fight for my birthright! Tell me, Alicent, what do you want from me!”

“I--” Alicent stumbled over her words. “I don’t--”

“Do you do this same thing to my brother? Do you lead him on? Tempt him? Will he stray from his wife for you?” Daemon spits at her. He grasped her arm, yanking her closer. “I was told you were more than obliging with Grandfather. Is that true?” 

Alicent saw red, fists clenching. “No! How dare you! I am a maid still!”

“You don’t need to lose your maidenhead to please or be pleased,” Daemon scoffed. “Tell me girl, do you love me?” 

“More than I ought to, but you love only yourself!” Alicent cried out. “You hear them whisper about me, don’t you? They say you’ve taken my maidenhead! You ought to be defending my honor, or perhaps apologizing to me for those rumors. Instead you ask me to support you! What would you have me do? Slip some pennyroyal into her wine? Convince her to take a sip of moon tea?”

“Oh, are you close enough to her to do so?” Daemon didn’t look amused. “Did I ask you to? Hmm? Did  _ I _ ? Don’t speak for what I want,  _ girl _ .” 

_ How can you call me a girl when you act like a small boy? How can you treat me so when I have done nothing but love you? All I am to you is another conquest! _

“Do you  _ love  _ me?” Alicent asks suddenly, heartbroken. Daemon stares at her for a very long couple of seconds, moving close to her. She doesn’t have time to protest before he pressed his lips against hers. 

His lips tasted of cheap ale and his light stumble itched her cheeks uncomfortably. But Daemon was firm against her, holding her shoulders and head, keeping her still against him. Nothing Mother had ever taught her prepared her for this moment. For this suddenness. 

His lips were soft. So  _ soft.  _ It lit a fire inside of her belly as he so often then, except this time it consumed her in the most painful way. His lips might be against hers, but he did not love. He  _ did  _ not love her. He tasted on her lips all of her dreams and longings and great love. But she did not believe he felt the same. 

Releasing her, Daemon stroked her hair gently until it fell from its plait. “Let me have you, Alicent. Let me show you what I feel for you.” 

“Lust?” 

There are no tears in her eyes. She’s wasted enough of them in King’s Landing. Wasted enough of them on the Targaryens. 

“Yes, but not just desire. Not just lust. When Rhea dies, I will make you my wife. Let me have you now, for later we will be wed.”

Alicent scoffs, though every part of felt inflamed. Her lips burned for another kiss. “Will you? Will you truly? So when I am forty and an old maid, you will take me as your bride? Your wife is healthy and wealthy-- she will live long. Especially since you will not put a babe in her!” 

“Do not--”

“Go back to your White Worm. Go back to your wife. Go back to Flea Bottom. Why should I want you as a husband? When the King’s child is born, you will be heir to  _ nothing _ .” 

Daemon’s eyes widen. He looks as if he might strike her, but instead he turns away. Marching out, he sends her one last look of unimaginable fury and mournful misery. 

With the slam of the chamber door, Alicent collapses to her knees and wonders why he could not love her. 

_ __ _

 

Father raged through their chambers, “It is that Targaryen girl that will not let this marriage happen!”

Alicent hummed, finishing the hem of Gwayne’s new shirt. Since Mother had died, she had taken to caring for the boy. He outgrew his clothes quick now as his shoulders broadened, and Alicent took great pleasure in sewing new ones for him. It was one of the few skills Mother had taught her that she could use often. Besides, it saved her some coin to do it herself instead of paying a tailor or seamstress. 

“And why wouldn’t the Lady Velaryon want me to marry her son?” 

“They say it is because your maidenhood is  _ questionable _ ! My daughter! It’s because they want the Iron Throne. It is because they want him to marry the Princess Rhaenyra.” Father huffed, running a hand through his thinning black hair. “She’s still bitter, that damned woman, for being passed over as heir? What of tradition? It could not have went to her! She believes her son to have better claim to the throne so he ought to marry the princess. She will put her boy on the throne one way or another.” 

“It won’t happen either way if Queen Aemma has a son.” Alicent replies steadily. She pointedly ignores the slight against her. Alicent has realized her mistake in being so close to Daemon, who ruined her reputation. Months later and it still hurts to be apart from him, though she knows it’s for the best. He did not love her, not anymore than he loved his White Worm. 

Father shrugged, “Queen Aemma hasn’t produced a healthy son yet. I highly doubt she will. The Queen has had many miscarriages, and her only son died in the cradle. Rhaenys Velaryon knows that. Chances are high that Princess Rhaenyra will inherit the throne.” He slumped down into a seat across from her, rubbing his temples. “This pain in my head will not leave me.” 

“Some mint leaves ought to help. Have the servants boil them into a tea. King Jaehaerys often had such pains.” 

“My clever daughter.” Father smiled pridefully. “Any man ought to know you are a great prize. No more innocent, smart girl did ever exist. You will be a Velaryon bride, I promise you.”

“It matters not to me.” Alicent sighs. 

Father continues on, “I’d rather see Princess Rhaenyra on the throne than Lord Flea Bottom, of course. I won’t see you passed over for marriage, however. We’ll fight it. We’ll fight for your place.”

Alicent shakes her head and says nothing at all.

 

She is very tired of fighting. 

 

She wants to start winning. 

 

_ __ _

 

“How do you think she fares?”

“Well, I am sure, Your Grace.”

Viserys sighs, “I cannot fight off this feeling of worry, Alicent.” A ring rolled between his fingers fondly, and his eyes were far far away. The ring was much much too small for him with a dark blue stone set with small diamonds. Blue and white. Blue and white. The colors of House Arryn. 

Alicent felt her own stomach drop. 

“She’s with a small army of midwives and Grandmaster Runciter  _ and _ Maester Mellos, Your Grace.” She says very gently, for she knows not what to say. Faint echoes of a familiar voice haunts her horribly.  _ My Lord, all will be well. Your wife will survive-- no, sweet Alicent, do not weep. Your mother will be alive and well by the end of the night.  _ Her mother had died that very night, taken by a fever and strong stomach pains. It had been her first year at court. That morning Alicent, with dried tears still on her cheeks, had been rushed out of bed by her Father.  _ To the King! He has asked for you.  _ With her mother rotting away, Alicent had been forced to attend to King Jaehaerys. 

“They will  _ all  _ do their best, Your Grace. She is not the first woman to give birth.” 

_ And she would not be the first to die from it _ , Alicent thinks, but she does not say that. It would be a lie to say everything would be alright. Maester Mellos had told her that as her mother died before her. 

“I worry,” Viserys whispers. “I worry much too much. I just want a healthy wife and healthy son.” 

Alicent knows it is inappropriate, but she settles her hand against his arm. She squeezed comfortingly, sitting closer to his side. Behind her, she sees Ser Criston Cole (the newest member of the Kingsguard) shift on his feet. She does not look at him. 

She does not look at Viserys. She looks instead to the ground and she prays. 

 

**_________ **

 

Aemma Arryn dies. 

Her son dies. 

Alicent ought to cry. She ought to mourn her Queen. She ought to comfort the little princess or give her condolences to her friend, Viserys. 

At the very least, she ought to go see Prince Daemon off as he fled to Dragonstone for his exile, if only to see her lost love off for the last time. ( _ “Heir for a day, heir for a day, poor poor little Baelon!”  _ With that in mind, Alicent knows he deserves that anger.)

She does none of those things. 

Alicent Hightower looks at her father and smiles for he seems to be thinking the same thing. 

Alicent had learned of Aemma Arryn’s death and though:

_ There’s great need of new queen.  _

~~ A part of her wonders when she became so cold and heartless. That part is put away for another time. ~~

  
  



	3. a formal feeling comes

___

  
  


**_Late 105 AC_ **

 

Alicent does not cry when she finds out Misery the White Worm had been impregnated. She does not cry. 

She laughs. She laughs despite herself, even though inside she seethes. She lets the anger settle into her bones. She lets it rot her from the inside out, wondering how she’s let a dragon burn her whole. Alicent is not a woman (or girl, or child, or anything anymore) that cries anymore, for her heart has been broken again and again by everyone that could do so, and it had finally sealed together entirely.

“And then he gave her a dragon egg.” Father shoves a piece of venison into his mouth, chewing it  _ too  _ slowly. It takes all Alicent has in her not to scream at him.  _ Swallow, man swallow! Why has he done that? Tell me more, foolish man!  _ “For his unborn son, he said. How foolish can the man get? An egg for a bastard!”

Alicent frowns, “And what has the King said about it?” 

“He’s sent a raven to Dragonstone. Daemon  _ will  _ return the egg and send the whore away.”

“Where will she go?” 

“Where she’s from, I imagine. Lys.”

Alicent feels victory in her bones. To her utter shame and fury, she had once dreamed of Mysaria of Lys, imagining the softest pink lips. Wisps of pale shoulders, a flash of light blue eyes, yellow hair so lightly colored she could have sworn that it shimmered white in the sun’s light. Pale as the moon! Alicent had never seen the woman, could  _ not  _ bear to see her. No, she was much too noble and well-bred go to a  _ brothel _ to look upon the face of a whore, but her imagination always seemed to get the best of her. The exotic woman she had dreamed up from the stories she had heard by her gossiping maids so often haunted her. In her dreams, she often brought up a sight of her beloved Daemon passionately embraced with that whore, his lips upon pale pink ones, consuming her false love hungrily. 

Alicent smiles, all white teeth and peach lips. “Do you suppose he will send her away?” Of course, he will. Daemon’s inheritance relies solely upon his brother’s great love, and recently there was none such affection between the two brothers. Their king had declared Rhaenyra his heiress, out of a grief-fueled rage that hadn’t shimmered out as quickly as everyone had thought from the mild-mannered man. It was well-known fact that Princess Rhaenyra had become her father’s small pale shadow, holding court with him and attending council meetings. 

Otto Hightower rarely had the great pleasure of privacy around the King as his daughter was always somewhere in the room, lingering. It amuses Alicent beyond belief, knowing how it much  _ infuriate  _ Daemon to know his brother would not back down from his choice to name his daughter as heir to the Throne rather than him. It made her burn, as if her own silent quest for vengeance had turned into a war in itself.  _ Fire and Blood _ , she recalls thoughtfully, understanding then what the first Targaryens had thought when they’d decided upon the words. Alicent had been a good-natured girl, but he had turned her into a scorned woman with a thirst for the misfortune of that prince. 

Why did it hurt so much? She owed nothing to Daemon Targaryen. Alicent had never allowed him to take her maidenhead nor had she ever given him tokens of her affection. She’d loved him, sure, but what did she know of love? She knew it shouldn’t be enough to make her angry. Love shouldn’t sour into vengeance. Perhaps she had never loved Daemon at all. Perhaps she only thought she had. It just shouldn’t make her feel like  _ this _ . She picks the pits out of the bowl of sweet cherries at her side. 

It shouldn’t feel like  _ this _ . 

There’s a long silence for the pair. 

Father glances at her casually, though his voice cut through her like a sword to the belly. “His Grace told me you've been a great comfort to him in his grieving.” 

Alicent sips her wine. She had never been allowed wine before, but Viserys had always been quick to allow a taste. She’d acquired a great liking to it, and her companion ( _ the king, the king! _ ) often sent her fine wines to try from various parts of the world. Her favorite, Arbor Gold, was rarely served in the household before they had come to King’s Landing. 

“Well?” 

“Well what, Father? I am experienced in loss.” Alicent smiles tiredly, brushing her plaited hair to the other shoulder. “I’ve heard from His Grace that you  _ haven’t  _ been a great comfort. You’ve lost a wife, haven’t you?”

“Do  _ not _ .” Father warns her. A lifetime ago, before Jaehaerys, before Mother’s passing, Alicent might have took the wiser course and bit her tongue, for she knew better than to upset her father. Now, however, she would  _ not  _ keeping her opinions or thoughts inside to burn away the parts of her kept private. What more did she have to lose? Father could  _ not  _ send her away to Oldtown without losing favor with the King, nor could he deny her access to the outside world. Alicent was a vital part of the royal household, serving both Princess Rhaenyra  _ and  _ King Viserys, and Father was not foolish enough to risk his position to punish his daughter for a untamed tongue. 

“Do  _ not _ ?” Alicent waved a maid over, motioning to her Father’s cupbearer to come to her. The boy, whose name is Alyn Beesbury, poured her another glass, filling her cup. “That’s enough. Thank you, Alyn.” 

“My Lady,” The boy says, turning away from her. His eyes are wide with disbelief, though thoughtless in what to do with what he sees now. Alicent sipped her wine victoriously until it had finished, and then slid the goblet away from her. 

Father narrows his eyes, but stays silent. 

“So how is my betrothal to Laenor Velaryon coming along, Papa?” 

Her smile is venomous, cruel and biting. In another life, perhaps she had been Dornishman surrounded by vipers in a sweltering desert. 

“Why would I engage you to a  _ boy  _ when we have  great need for a Queen?” Father shakes his head at her, those dark eyes glaring into hers thoughtfully. She wonders why her mother fell in love with those eyes. They were like coal, black as night and cold as the winter, like endless pits.  

Alicent’s quick and cruel, “Queen Aemma’s body has not yet gone cold, and you think to put me on the throne. How ambitious can a man get?”

“And you’re not doing the same, daughter? Tell me, what are you doing with the King? It was clear with Jaehaerys what you intended.”

“What  _ I  _ intended? You forced me to care for him--”

“I did nothing you could not stop, you ambitious little--”

Alicent rose, “I was  _ not  _ ambitious with that old man! I pitied and loved him as any daughter ought to her old father.” Her voice grew louder, and one of her maidens, Lady Jeyne Cuy, took a step away from her. There was a jug of water in her hands, and wide blue eyes darted around. Alicent could have laughed at the way the woman stared at Little Alyn Beesbury for guidance. “Go on, Jeyne, go to your quarters. I won’t need you tonight. Alyn, you are dismissed as well.”

Jeyne’s skirts flutter as she flees. Alyn moves to set down the wine when her Father shouts. 

“You do  _ not  _ dismiss  _ my  _ cupbearer, insolent girl! Alyn, you will stay.”

Alyn stops, eyes wide and unsure. Alicent could have boxed that boy’s ears if he had stood close enough to her. Anger surged through her veins at being so willfully ignored, and she pointed towards the door. 

“Go, child, go.” 

The boy was scarcely the same age as her brother Gwayne, and much smaller. Gwayne, broad-shoulder and freckled, often fled from their fights, and had fled from Mother and Father’s when he was little. She distinctly remembers holding Gwayne close to her as a little girl when Mother began to cry and shout, tucking his head beneath her chin as she spoke to him of dragons and Oldtown and House Tyrell and everything else she could think of. Alyn Beesbury could  _ not  _ be held or comforted, so at the very least she would him away as she sent Jeyne away. No child ought to see a fight. 

“Gods, Father, can you not see inside yourself? Do you not know what you do to those around you? Alyn Beesbury, I say again, go on. Go to your quarters or into town. Simply  _ go _ .” 

There’s a boiling rage in her, a cruel one that wanted to burn everyone within her reach. An unimaginary  _ fury _ towards Daemon and Misery, at Aemma Arryn for dying so young without a son, at Viserys for depending on her, at Jaehaerys for dying much too soon. At her Father for not loving her mother. Had he? Had he even cared for her? Does anyone love anyone? 

Was there no love in the world at all?

For now, her rage focused on Father for putting these unkind thoughts in her head since she was a girl that she ought to be queen. He would regret it, she thinks hotly, for if ever Viserys gave her such a position, she would be Lady of the Realm. Even Father could not control her then, and she would wield that power with every grace her father did not have and every strength her mother  _ hadn’t _ given her. 

Alyn doesn’t move. He’s stricken in fear and anxiety, like a mouse backed into a corner by a hungry tomcat, nowhere to go and no way to get out. Poor, poor child. (She often felt the same, like a boat without a sail or paddles, drifting alone at the will of others in terror.)

Father looks years old, all wrinkled and exhausted. His shoulders slump, and he doesn’t look at her for she has won. She always wins. 

“You’re dismissed for the night, Alyn.”

He goes in a wave of brown cloth, his boots slapping against the stone floor like swords clashing. Loud. Repetitive. Alicent frowns. 

The door slams. 

“You’ve scared him, for the sake of the Gods.” 

“He’s a strong lad, and I’d say I know him better than you. I know what the boy feels.”

“Because he pours your wine?” Alicent laughs, shaking her head. She brushes off her skirts. “You don’t even know how your own children feel. You don’t know how  _ I  _ feel.”

“You think me a bad father? You throw the late King in my face constantly, as if he were your father instead of I. You throw my own children in my face. All I do, I do for you!”

Alicent flinches back, as if struck. “For  _ me _ ?” 

“For this family.” 

Her fists clench. She straightens her back. 

“Do you really believe that?” 

_ __ _

 

He calls her to him again. By his side, she watched his daughter (his heir, the future queen, the bane of Daemon Targaryen) ride atop her mount. 

“Syrax,” Viserys tells her thoughtfully. “After a Valyrian Goddess. Do not ask me the story of her, for I do not know it. Rhaenyra does though.” 

He laughs. 

She watches. 

Alicent has read a hundred books and texts about dragons, some to herself, some to Gwayne as a little boy, and some to King Jaehaerys.  _ Fearsome beasts, hideous monsters, fire made flesh, kingmakers.  _ Above them, Rhaenyra shrieks in pleasure, clutching tight to the dragon-- Syrax-- which makes Alicent reconsider her position on them. Fearsome, yes, for that beast could breath fire and fly even above The High Tower, but enchanting as well.

Syrax’s yellow scales gleam gold in the midday’s scorching sun, half-blinding Alicent. It wasn’t so big as she had thought it would be, for she always imagined Balerion the Old Dread (who had died years before she was old enough to see him), but it still overtook the skies above. It gives her chills to watch, and she imagines riding atop one herself. It  _ almost _ scares her.

Viserys stretches an arm over his eyes, hiding from the sun’s glare. “Do you remember your childhood?” 

“I do.” 

“You ever ride a dragon as a little girl?” His eyes are wide and joyful now as he gazed at her. His smile happy and amused. Always happy. Always  _ happy _ . Even with so much grief. 

“No, Your Grace.” Alicent laughs. “I distinctly remember playing Come-Into-My-Castle and Blind Jon Claps, but I never rode a dragon. She’s a lucky girl, that sweet Princess Rhaenyra.”

Viserys has a peculiar look on his face. “Blind Jon Claps? What sort of game is  _ that _ ?” He was innocent in some ways, unaware of the world around. Alicent wonders if perhaps royal children weren’t allowed as much fun. They got dragons. Alicent got to clap.

“It’s-- well, you know-- when you close your eyes. And your brothers or sisters or companions clap loudly. Only twice a minute, and they must stand very still. And you must find them. If you haven’t found them in that minute, they move and try again. Winner always get a treat-- Mama once let us have candied plums as a reward when we played with our cousins. No one ever liked our cousins.”

Viserys laughs, warm and deep. “I never liked my cousins-- well,  _ cousin _ . Rhaenys was never fond of me.” His eyes were soft then, so tender and saddened. “I don’t know if Aemma had liked me before we wed either. We’d scarcely met. Only when Grandfather went on progress, and even then Rhaenys was his preferred companion.” His fingers flexed against his leg, and Alicent slid her hand against the armrest of his chair. 

“I don’t believe Lady Velaryon is fond of anyone except for her children, Your Grace.” Alicent comforts, offering him a soft pat on the shoulder. In another life, in another time, in a better world, Alicent might have admired Rhaenys Targaryen. She might have thought that Jaehaerys had robbed the poor woman of her birthright, of her kingdom. Alicent took great pride in women advancing in a world that would make them silent wives and mothers, and she wished for a Queen on the Iron Throne. But she’s fond of Viserys. 

He ought to be king. He  _ is  _ king. 

A kingdom ought to be ruled by a good man. 

Viserys swipes at his eyes, “Come! Come, you must tell me why it’s called Blind Jon Claps.” He shifts in his chair, raising an arm to signal his daughter to come down as Alicent begins to speak. 

“I don’t know for certain-- it may just be a silly game without any story, Your Grace.” Alicent starts thoughtfully. “But I was told as a girl that there was a boy named Blind Jon that lived in the Riverlands. He was blind at birth so his village tried to accommodate him. They would clap when they neared him, so that he would know where they were. Well, Blind Jon became so good he could find you from just one clap. He went around all of the kingdoms, letting people hide from him in different rooms. In the woods. One clap was all he needed to find you. It was like setting a hound loose with a traitor’s scent.”

Viserys laughs. 

“Ah! I wish it was true! I’d love to have seen it. Good entertainment is hard to find.” His eyes darted to his daughter as she dismounted. “Rhaenyra! Rhaenyra! Come to me, sweet girl! We’re going to play a game!”

He stood quickly, waving her to him. The girl laughs, all bells and chimes, sprinting towards him. Her hair was in silver tangles around her head, and there was a grace to the way her black skirts flew around her ankles. Alicent wonders silently if she would ever bear any children so pretty. That thought is set aside. 

Rhaenyra beams, halting in front of Alicent. It takes her a very long moment to realize she had stood to meet her, and that Viserys stood behind her too. Usually the girl had a thick plait with red ribbons, and usually Alicent was the one to braid it. Today feels very different. Very different. 

As if nothing in the world was in alignment. 

But it also felt very right. 

“Alicent will go first, since it is her game.” Viserys declares with a wink. “Well, go on, Blind Alicent.” 

She manages a smile.

_ __ _

 

Her eyes are covered by her own hair ribbon. 

She listens intently for the claps. A gentle one to her right, a strong one to her left, and another loud one behind her. It ought to be a member of the Kingsguard, most likely Ser Criston Cole. He was often dragged into games by Princess Rhaenyra. She goes left, spreading her arms out to feel around, but nothing finds her hands. 

She hears Rhaenyra giggle, but she can’t say where. 

“Come on, now.” Alicent says. “Another clap. Minute’s almost up.” 

Three more come from different spots. She whirls around, her hands held out, and she tumbles over a tree root in her attempt. A laugh fumbled from someone’s lips, half-snorted. 

“Oh hush,” She murmurs. “You mustn’t laugh. It’ll ruin the game.” 

That was a lie, but she didn’t much favor getting laughed at while she stumbled her way around. One of the claps had been in front of her, and she goes slow. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Good, good, no tree branches. Nothing meets her hands. 

The King’s voice is merry. It hadn’t been in so very long. “It’s been a minute, Rhae!” 

With a huffing laugh, Alicent hears the girl rush through the grass around them, her skirts fluttering. 

_ Clap.  _

She turns her whole body, tumbling after the sound. Alicent had been good at this as a girl. The very best! It had always infuriated Gwayne. Something inside of her bubbles up, something like laughter and pleasure and…

And something she doesn’t know. 

“Another clap!” Princess Rhaenyra says cheerfully. Alicent thinks she  _ might  _ know where the girl is, but she can’t say for certain. It’d been easier when she’d been a girl, long before her first moonblood. 

_ Clap. Clap.  _

Minutes pass with great amusement for the Hightower girl. She’s dirty and exhausted, grass staining her skinned knees from all her stumbles and falls. 

“Admit defeat yet, Blind Alicent?” 

The King’s voice sounds far. She cannot tell where. 

“Sure, sure!” She calls, ripping off the ribbon. Almost jumping, she realized Rhaenyra was standing right in front of her. The princess shines, a mischievous smile twisting on her lips. 

“You didn’t find me and I made it easy.” 

“You’re much too quiet, Your Highness.” Alicent replies playfully. She waves silently at Ser Criston Cole respectfully, acknowledging his role in their little game. 

The King calls out, “Good game!”

A few paces away, Viserys laughs. It was boisterous laugh, loud and deep from his belly, and so warm. His eyes crinkle and his nostrils flare, cheeks lighting up red as he guffawed. It wasn’t at her. It wasn’t at anything. 

He was laughing to laugh. He was laughing to let go of all that pain, all of that grief. It was warm. His laughter was warm and loud. Viserys easily tossed his daughter into his arms, and Alicent strained to remember the last time her own father had bothered to spend time with her for entertainment purposes only. The  _ King  _ had spent a whole afternoon with his child, laughing. 

She felt like a stranger, privy to a secret never to be shared outside of this singular moment. Her skin flushed hot, and her eyes widened for a moment. Here was love. Love from a father to a daughter, a daughter to father. It was real and genuine, it was family. Viserys held hopes for Rhaenyra, but never forced her into making them come true. Tears brimmed behind green eyes. She felt like an intrusion. This was family, this was love. Devotion. It reminded her of sunshine, blinding and hot and bringing life to her--

Alicent stares at this huffing man and his little daughter, and she thinks,  _ I could fall in love with him. I could fall for this family. I could be in love with all that sunshine. _

And perhaps, she already was.

 

_ __ _

 

_ “How he’s done it, I’ll never know.” _

_ Mother tears her dresses from the chest they had brought with them. She throws them across the room, turning on her heel.  _

_ “I’ll never know how does anything he does, Alicent. I thought once that perhaps he was charming, but he isn’t and he wasn’t. He never charmed me. He never did anything for me. How does he do it?” Mother pressed a hand against her own cheek, shaking her head against it. “A prince dies and your father rises. Is that what he’s done? Slithered in on his belly as the King grieves his heir? What could he have said or done? The unknown Hightower son becomes Hand of the King? No, no there must be a mistake. How?” _

_ “I don’t know. Perhaps because he knows so many things.”  _

_ Mother tutted, “Oh sure, oh sure! And he thinks many things too.” Her voice softened, breaking apart like splintered wood. “You must understand-- no, no while it’s on my mind-- it must be said that your father wants too much. He is haughty and proud and entirely too hungry.”  _

_ “Hungry?” _

_ Mother’s voice is high and hysterical, “Yes, yes, he’s a starving man. He wants that throne. Not to sit on, mind you, just to stand close enough to it for people to have to wonder is a subject or a puppeteer. That-- that-- that knave! He moves my poor children far from their home, their family, to a dragon’s pit. With wolves and lions and flowers and stags all about, waiting for a chance to pounce!” She kicks her chest, sending it flying across the room with fabric and jewels spilling everywhere. “Where are my maids? Do they wish me to air out my own gowns?”  _

_ Mother pressed her face into her hands. Her whole body trembled.  _

_ “Why would be do this to us? Why would he do this?”  _

_ Alicent said nothing, just stroking her mother’s back.  _

_ “Oh, he’ll be the end of us!” _

_ __ _

 

“There’s a method to these things,” Father says tenderly at midday, when all tempers have cooled. He sits beside her on the railing of the balcony, not as high up as at the Hightower, but high enough for her to see out across King’s Landing. “A method, sure, to these delicate matters.”

Alicent keeps her hands steady on her book, though her attention was far from it. It was a modestly warm day, and her hair was pulled off her shoulders to cool down her neck. It sat atop her head, done up in the style of the Reach, and it made her feel like Mother. Many things did, as she had inherited more of her mother’s beauty than anything else. The hair, the eyes, the smile, the nose, it all stemmed from Helaena Tyrell, the hysterical wife. When they had fought when Alicent was young, she remembers Papa calling her unwell.  _ You call me foolish, yet I am not the one with an unwell mind! Love, love, enough of it, woman!  _

She peers down at the bustling city below, at the women with their dirty, naked babes suckling at their teats and the staggering men half-crippled from hard labors. Stonemasons, farmers, seamstresses, miller, butchers, grocers, bakers. It all seemed so trivial to her so high above them, but to them, it was their life’s work. No, no, work was their life.

Alicent pressed a hand against her face, leaning back to look down at the brown-skinned ants around them, peering through the glaring sun at them with their leathery cheeks and calloused hands. 

“--when he asks for your hand, we will be modest, of course. We will send a great dowry, but ask little in return. Everything's methodical, my girl. It must all be played well.” 

Alicent sighs wistfully, “Do you s’pose they’re happy down there? The Miller’s fat wife or the broken-backed wife of the chandler that carries around her child of five name days. What makes them happy, do you think?” 

“Are you not listening to me, girl?” 

What was happiness? What was happiness to a man with nothing, not even a thread on his back or blood in veins. Looking amongst the people was pitiful for they looked among the dead rather than the living. Why let the heart beat and the Stranger fear you were never to join It if you had little to live for? Happiness and love were two edges of the same bastard blade, one always connected to the other, but they could not exist without each other, so a man ought to love his wife, but he may never be happy with his long hours and little results. 

What did the smallfolk have to be happy about? Most were poor and illiterate, with little knowledge of the Seven except that which has been preached to them by kind Septons. Their lives were simple, but harder than any lord or lady could ever imagine. What they lacked in court scandals and scheming Houses, they were made up in exhausting labor and unending poverty. If harvest failed, the smallfolk suffered empty bellies long before their lords and king learned of the shortage. Alicent felt her stomach twist harshly as it suddenly occurred to her how pitifully the smallfolk must live their uncontenedly lives. 

“They ought to have entertainment.” Alicent chews her lip, setting aside her book. She leaned forward, dangling from the wooden railing, and her father braced his arms to catch her though it was unneeded. She had spent years high above the ground, learning quickly the height she was content with, and how far off the ledge she could go. (Only once had she fallen off, as a young girl of perhaps six, and lived only because her brother Gareth had thrown himself across the railing to catch her long hair and shoulder.) “They ought to have something that makes their day more bearable. Do you remember the mummers? Do you remember that little dwarf that made me laugh so greatly?” 

Father’s black eyes are molting. They melt into her, hot and cold, too much entirely. His eyes are always dark, with rage, with sorrow, with thought. 

“You understand I’m explaining your future to you.” Father says slowly, distinct in every word as if she was a simpleton, as if she was slow of mind. “Because I feel as though you don’t seem to understand.” 

_Sure, sure,_ she thinks. _Ask for very little_ _and give very much. I know, I know. It is as it always has been. A man takes and a woman gives._ And apart of her feels sick to stomach again at the thought of using Viserys in such a way, in manipulation for the throne that her father so coveted. For he was the sunshine and the warmth and the _good_ , the light in a darkness so bright that she never wants to leave it. In some ways, she disgusted herself for anyone born into corruption would ultimately be corrupted themselves, and she does not deny her thoughts about the matter. 

Her first instinct, like her father, had been to replace Queen Aemma Arryn. It had come into her head as a vye for power, an ode to a power much greater than herself. To be queen would be her only freedom, her only position. She had nothing and everything balanced neatly on the slender tips of her fingers, almost within reach, within her grasp. He was so  _ warm.  _ So close. So close. 

It wasn’t fair. 

Guilt ate away at her. It consumed her every thought, how easily she had considered using her pull with the king to become a pull to the bed of a king. He was a good man. A  _ good _ man with all the genuine intentions of someone that wanted to be loved greatly and give to his people all of his feelings. 

“You say that like he  _ wants  _ to marry me. And if he does not? Then where will your plans be?” 

“He  _ looks _ at you, not through you. He respects your guidance. He has private audiences with you-- has for  _ years _ . How many women do you thing get that honor? How many does he keep in personal attendance?” Father goes on, “I’ve mentioned it, courting you. Even if he doesn't love you, a man can be convinced he does. Your uncle has already agreed to finance your dowry. It can be repaid later, and your one of your brothers are willing to join the Kingsguard-- most likely Gareth. We have wealthy allies. We can convince you are worth more than any other woman. It’s a matter of the mind, a method of persuasion.” 

Alicent turns away from him, keeping her eyes forward and back pressed out until she was a rigid board. Her mind was too wild, her thoughts too ambitious, her heart thumping against her ribs in an anxious melody.

“A playhouse,” Alicent decides thoughtfully, turning her attentions back to those little leather-skinned, sunken eyed ants beneath them. Those ants that were stood upon by the rich and snuffed out when unproductive. Those that lived miserable little lives. “The people need a playhouse. There’s one in Oldtown, and you can see many troupes day after day. These people ought to see funny acts for pennies, and it would be much cheaper if there was a playhouse so the troupes did not need to pay for a spot for their locations.” 

“What are you on about?” Father demands, half-enraged. “Do you not-- are you slow, child? I always thought you quick-witted, but now I’m not so convinced. You ignore all my advice to you! Rhaenys Targaryen is presenting her eleven year old daughter as a potential bride, and you do nothing to draw King Viserys to you!” 

“A playhouse.” Alicent repeats. “I’ll speak to the King about it. You would like it. I hear many troupes have  _ puppeteers _ there as well.” 

 

**_________ **

 

**_106 AC_ **

 

“I like Laena Velaryon.” 

Alicent ran a brush through the princess silken locks, nodding along with her words. She moved her elephant ivory comb up again, pulling it through the roots to the ends at her lower back. 

“It was a good meeting then? It is not very common for the Velaryons to visit.” 

“She’s older than I am.” Princess Rhaenyra notes. Behind them, Alicent hears the distinct shift of Ser Criston Cole, his arm jangling like the bells at the Starry Sept, and she felt unusually watched by his presence. “Only by a few years, but she seemed very young.” 

“And this upset you?” 

“No,” Rhaenyra’s voice turns dull and mournful, and though she cannot see her face, Alicent is  _ sure  _ she is frowning. “No, I’m not upset about that. I  _ like  _ her-- we ought to be good friends, Alicent, I just…” The little girl sighs deeply, shaking her head ever so slightly as to not disturb the brushing. “I don’t want a new mother. I had a mother, though now she stays with the Seven.”

“I see.” 

Rhaenyra continues, “Why does he need a new wife? I don’t understand. Your father did not remarry.” She turns to look at Alicent, fingers fluttering over her softened, straight silver curls that glowed gold in the candle light. “Why must  _ my  _ father remarry?” 

“My father is a cold man with little need for a wife. He has his books, which makes him such a good Hand, but a miserable man. He would not be loving to a woman, no matter how much or little she cares for him.” Alicent does  _ not  _ mention that no woman in their right mind with any real family name would dare marry the aging fool-- what could they gain from the marriage?

No, her father was a second son with an older brother and nephews. He had no real rank in Oldtown or the High Tower, not even as an heir, and besides that, he had little monetary wealth. All that was his was from his position as Hand of the King, and it could lost as soon as the King dropped him from power. Otto Hightower might be the second most powerful man in the Realm, but he was also the one on the weakest peg of the ladder. One wrong move could knock him back to the bottom. 

“Your father is a kind, gentle man, Your Highness. Women are great comforts to kind-hearted men, and your father deserves one most of all. A wife can be a companion.” 

“But you’re his companion, Alicent!”

“I am. Because I love your father very much. But a wife is very different sort of companion. She will be Queen, the Lady of the Realm, and she will be responsible for his happiness and that of the kingdom. A King must have a Queen for the arrangement of court, for his own advisement, and for love. You remember the role your mother played, didn’t you? She was the finest Queen I’ve ever had the pleasure of serving.” 

She neglected to mention the possibility of more heirs from a new bride, though she was unsure of Viserys’ position on such an occasion as the birth of a son. The Princess would be a suitable heir to the Throne, Alicent thought, and it was time for the woman to rise to power. That said, she could not imagine how the girl would take the news that she  _ could  _ be replaced as heir if only a boy was born. 

Rhaenyra took a long moment to consider her words, her face becoming withdrawn and pursed. It was that way often when she had such intense thought, and Alicent had learned to let the girl claw through her own thoughts because the child was intelligent. The child was brilliant and eloquent in her responses, and it kept Alicent’s wits sharp.

“If that is the case,” Rhaenyra begins slowly. “If that is the case, I can understand why we need a queen. But I would rather Laena Velaryon  _ not  _ be my father’s bride. She is too young to be my new mother, and I do not think she would make my father very pleased.” Rhaenyra turns around completely, crossing her ankles. She stares up at Alicent. In the darkness of the room, in the gaze of the moon, she looked very young, but also very well-lived. There was a wisdom about Princess Rhaenyra that the older woman often feared she did not have. 

“I think any queen we should have ought to be kind and loving, with no ill-intentions or selfish greed to marrying him. She should be my father's true and equal companion.” 

Rhaenyra’s wide purple eyes burn into Alicent. It was almost like the child was smoking her flesh, tearing the skin from her bones to examine what resided inside of her, inside of her  _ soul _ . Or perhaps that was her own paranoia. 

Was this the girl’s approval? Was this a threat? Did Rhaenyra see inside of Alicent? Did she see how desperately the ambitious, selfish woman wanted to give herself to Viserys for her own power? Did she see the true love she did feel for Viserys?

“You are my father’s companion, aren’t you?” 

“Of course, I am, Your Highness.” Alicent laughs, shaking her head. She only relaxes when Rhaenyra laughs too, all wide smiles and sweet eyes. “And yours as well, and my purpose is to make everyone so very happy.”

Rhaenyra nods, pleased. 

 

_ __ _

 

Her skirts flutter to a stop when she rises to her feet from her curtsy. The door has barely shut behind her when she hears  _ his  _ voice.

“Your father wants me to marry you.” 

Alicent blinks up at her companion.  _ Oh yes, I know! I know, I know, for he wants that Throne in all ways he can have it, in your stead and in your bed.  _ But it feels wrong to be confronted about it. It feels wrong against her bones for she is guilty of wanting, of hungering for power like her father, and she does not want him to see her guilt. 

“He says it every day, mentions it when we discuss Laena Velaryon or that Manderly girl. There’s even another Arryn woman for me somewhere.” Viserys looks very old then, the opposite of his daughter from  _ that _ day so many nights ago. He’s pudgier than she recalls, but it only adds to her great admiration of him, for he was a good man. Who cared for his appearance? Not she!

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I know how you mourn for Queen Aemma. It is inappropriate of him.” 

Viserys shakes his slowly. His hair shimmers. “I’m being advised to marry so many different women. Yet I’ve met few of them. How will I know I like them?” He looks at the seat across from him for a long moment, and Alicent knows what he wants from her. She crosses the threshold, taking a seat in front of him. “I’m sure I won’t mind anyone, but I want to love my wife. It can’t be Laena Velaryon. I can’t bed a girl the same age as my own daughter. She’s just a child.”

“Well I’m sure the Manderly woman will serve you as a good wife.” 

Viserys sighs, “I don’t want just any girl, Alicent, I want  _ you _ .” He looks at her with those dark, smothering purple eyes that had always enchanted her far more than she thought possible. “The smallfolk adore you for their playhouse. It was a fine idea that’s lifted the spirits of this city, and it’s given them a new sense of purpose. You’re a good woman, Alicent, and my closest friend. I love you.”

She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want to say  _ anything _ . Her words would ruin this moment, would ruin all of it.  _  No! No! I’m selfish! I wished myself queen the way my father wished himself Hand. What if my mind is unwell? Do not love me!  _ But the rest of her is thrilled, is warm, is ecstatic because  _ this  _ is what she wanted. This moment was her first moment of freedom, something her father hadn’t made, for this was her own doing. He loved her. 

“But I need to know you love me too. I don’t want your father’s influence. Not right now, not today. If we wed, I want it to be because you wanted me, not because your father and I made arrangements. I’d be a right prick to just decide you’d be mine.” 

If her father was here, he’d have stripped her of her dress and gave her to Viserys right now without a second thought. He was calculating enough to know that this was his best choice of power, for a man could lose a hand, but how could he rid himself of a whole wife? But her father is not here, nor is Princess Rhaenyra, and they are alone. And he is staring at her. 

She stares back. 

“You want to marry me for love?” 

Her mother had married for love. Alicent remembers that story too well, how her mother professed her love to Lord Tyrell until he agreed to let the couple wed. A tourney, they had met at a tourney, where Otto Hightower had stood off the side until Lady Helaena Tyrell had asked him for a dance. It was all history from there. 

“It’s alright if you don’t love me.” Viserys murmurs, though she can see the deep sadness in his gaze. “You don’t have to love me to marry me. You wouldn’t be the first woman to marry for the title. You’ll be happy, at the very least. I’d rather marry a woman I know I love than one that I don’t know.” 

No _. No.  _ Alicent dove forward, grasping his hands. “I love you,” She says, a million meanings to that word spilling out of her like wine from a broke barrel. “

“I do. I love you more than I love even myself. More than--”  _ Daemon _ , but she does not say that. She does not say that because it may not be true, and she doesn’t want this to begin with a lie. She isn’t sure she ever even loved Daemon. Or if what she’s feeling for Viserys right this moment is love. “I love you. And I wish to marry you.”

And he smiles. He smiles because, by the Gods, that’s what he does best. Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, was all the goodness and the warmth and the hearth fire on a freezing night. 

And Alicent is the dark and the selfish and the greedy, but she does not feel it. She does not feel it for Viserys lights up the pieces of her that are ugly and ambitious. 

He makes her better. 

“I’ll have ravens sent out to announce our marriage.” Viserys announces excitedly. “I want the highborn lords to weep when they hear the most beautiful woman in the world has been betrothed!”

Alicent laughs and laughs. 

(And cries that night in terror and joy.)

**_________ **

_ Alicent,  _

_ I will not believe it to be true that you would set me aside for my brother. A messenger has come to bear the news. Do you know what you have done? How much blood spilled down the boy’s back as I lashed him. It can not be true.  _

_ If you wed my brother, you will lose my love. And if you lose my great love for you, it may well turn into the greatest hate you will ever know. Consider yourself warned that my heart will not be played with by a woman.  _

_ Your love,  _

_ Daemon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone _

When finished reading, Alicent burns the letter in her fire. Let him hate her! What did hate matter to a happy woman? 

**_The Day of Marriage; 106 AC_ **

Sitting beside her husband, Alicent waves to her new court with all the grace of a woman of her rank, fingers folded as if she were holding a delicate flower in her palm. Rhaenyra stands beside her, pouring her wine. 

“Daughter,” She says fondly, leaning closer to kiss the princess’s pink-tinted cheek. “Go dance! Enjoy the feast.” 

Rhaenyra’s smiling. “Yes,  _ Mother _ .” She turns away, setting aside the jug of wine. She’s gone in a whirl of shining hair and red skirts, calling for Ser Criston Cole. Beside her, Viserys tightens the grip on her hand. He lifts her pale fingers to his lips, sending chills down her spine. 

“You look so beautiful, wife.” Viserys whispers to her, mirth in those beautiful eyes. She laughs, scandalized by the way he made her belly heat up, by the way he made her want more and more. 

There are roses woven into her hair. Flowers sewn onto her dress as a gift from House Tyrell, and a last ode to her mother. (The mother that was not here to guide her at her wedding, to tell her what she must do at her wedding night, what acts must be performed. The mother her heart ached for constantly and without end.)

Alicent’s dress was green silk. For green was the color of her eyes. Of the sea that she could see from her rooms early in the morning. The color of her mother’s fine gown, styled with elaborate white trimming, the day of Alicent’s fifth name day. The color of the bolt of light green fabric given to her by Queen Alysanne as a gift. Green was the eye color her mother so wished for, like polished emeralds. The color of the ribbons she wore in her hair as a girl.

Her husband’s favorite color.

Her father bows to her when he approaches the table sitting high upon the dais, “Your Grace,” His eyes are alight with thought. “Queen Alicent.” 

“Father.” 

Alicent’s eyes flicker away from him to watch her brother Gwayne. He loomed near the Kingsguard stationed far to the back of the Great Hall, and she frowned deeply. It gave her an ill feeling to watch him speak with such a light in his eyes to them. For her greatest fear would for Gwayne to join them. Let one of her older brothers! 

She turns her gaze back when her father rounds the table, halting behind her. Otto Hightower leans in close to her ear, brushing aside her thickly braided brown hair, whispering to her. 

“You’ve done well,” His voice is sickening sweet and loving, as if he truly was just a devoted father excited to see his child off to the world of matrimony. “This whole wedding was wonderful-- we will not mention how House Velaryon has snubbed us by their absence, but we will remember.” 

Alicent keeps her smile bright and her waving perfect. She turns her gaze to each House she recognized, either waving or bowing her head in acknowledgement. 

“The true battle next is for a son.” Father tells her kindly, almost thoughtful in tone. “Your mother had twin boys her first try! You ought to do well to give the Throne an heir.” 

Her voice is quiet and low. “And what of the young Princess Rhaenyra, Father? You supported her claim formerly.” 

Viserys stands up, giving her a quick kiss, and leaves to go towards his daughter as she danced. The Princess waved him over again, spinning on her heels, eyes wide and shining. Father waited until he had gone completely. 

“When you’re a mother, you’ll understand wanting the best for your children.” His voice is solemn and serious. “You’ll understand it too well.” 

Alicent says nothing. 

“Enjoy your wedding night, sweetling." 

 

_____


	4. and tears of sweet affection shed

____

 

**_Late 106 AC_ **

 

She is both lucky and unlucky. Lucky in the way she has risen in her rank, sitting next to the throne her father schemed to stand behind, lucky that she was in good health and loved by the smallfolk that she loved back so greatly, lucky to be loved by and love a good husband (the  _ king! the king!).  _ But fortune never favors only one woman without offering a cruel taste of life. Unlucky is she to have no mother to guide her, an unkind father with ambitious tendencies, and a man across the sea that hates her for misguided love and misplaced affection.

Fortunate to have had an army of midwives at her side, each more skilled and with more live births and healthy mothers to boast of than the last. Lucky is she to be attended to by three maesters (one of which was the Grandmaester).  _ Oh luck, oh luck, gifted to me by the Mother!  _

The midwives and the maesters are unnecessary in the end, though she feels more secure with them than any other woman in the world. (She shouldn’t, however, as Queen Aemma had the same care, but still died quick and with fevered sweats.)  All of those prayers, all those moments at the Sept with her head bowed in prayer to the Mother, to the Father, to her own mother Helaena Tyrell for strength in childbirth, they are all answered. 

No, no, not all are answered. She had prayed for an easy birth and a healthy daughter. Alicent had dreamed of her, of her own little girl. Her own Helaena Targaryen with big shining green eyes and a Tyrell face and sweet silver curls. She had prayed for this little girl to be born healthy and beautiful and fat and perfect. 

Lucky is Alicent Hightower for an easy birth. In only two hours after her waters gushed down her thighs, she delivered her child with four strong pushes. The pain had been horrific, new and unsettling, tearing her apart and burying her whole as she wished for her mother’s hand to hold, but it had ended quickly. 

The midwives whispered of the gift the Mother has given her _ , what a wonderful blessing from Her to the Queen! Never have I seen such a quick birth!  _ But it feels hollow to Alicent. She had prayed and prayed for a healthy little girl. A healthy  _ little girl _ . Her own Helaena, a memorial to a mother lost too soon. 

And all she got was a healthy son.

 

Oh, lucky  _ lucky _ Alicent had a son.

 

_ __ _

 

Sons do not belong to their mothers, not at all. The bells ring and ring outside her doors, the smallfolk cheer for the life of the prince and for the health of their beloved Queen, and Alicent feels completely full and completely empty as she stares down at this thing she had produced. 

A fat, big-cheeked boy. Red as an apple and buxom was her wet-eyed little boy without a single hair upon his head, and a tiny little Tyrell nose resting plainly upon his plump cheeks. Wrapped in red cloth, he has quieted for the time being, though he had screamed at his birth. His lungs had taken their first breath and replied with a battle cry rivalling that of glorious dragon at war. It was the same sound that Aegon the Conqueror heard when he flew into battle, fierce and renewing and  _ strong.  _

Alicent’s strength came from this little egg-headed boy’s cry. It was like she had been born again, stronger and with more steel in her soul and a burning fire in her veins. It consumed her. 

Her boy had none of his father in him, only her. Sons do not belong to their mothers, they belong to the world. They belong to their fathers, their grandfathers, their family’s name, the honor of their past and future generations. But this boy belongs to  _ her _ . He looks like  _ her _ , like her mother, like every piece of her that was spoiled and rotten had been wiped away in this boy. Everything that was corrupt about her was innocent in this child she created herself, she carried  _ herself. _ This child was like her, but better than anything she could have ever been and had more of a future.

And so she takes him to her breast, nurses him herself for the thought of that damnable milk maid, wet nurse, Wylla, touching her boy appalled and enraged her. Another woman to touch  _ her  _ boy, that belonged to her, would send her into a frenzy so primal that only an animal could understand completely. This was her only good thing in the world, the only thing that matters anymore. 

Viserys wants her to name this boy.  _ Boy or girl, you can choose their name, for you will be the one that brings them into this world and ought to have that right _ . And she thinks immediately of her beloved Jaehaerys. He was a  _ conciliator _ , a good man, and he had been her family in every way but blood. She had been his daughter, serving him from the moment she arrived at court as a young girl. He had seen her from a sniffling child mourning her mother without a single grace to a strong-willed woman with a burning fire in her eyes and a clever smile. She owed him more than she had repaid, for he taught her of life and death, of love and of loss, of a thousand stories with a thousand morals. 

King Jaehaerys had been her entire life, just as this child now was, this ugly, red-faced child that looked like her. He had been her happiness and grief, her reason and her purpose. 

But that pain, that  _ loss _ , is too fresh in her mind and heart. Years have passed, five to be exact, and it still felt like only moments ago that fluttering heartbeat faded in her hand, his breathing had stopped as she paused in her reading. Honoring him would bring her to tears each time she said her son’s name, and so she can’t bring herself to make his name to Jaehaerys. 

What does one name a child? How did her own mother think of Alicent as a name? Or Gwayne? Or Gareth or…?

She looks at this child. This son. 

_ Aegon _ , she decides. Aegon the Conqueror had been her constant friend over the years, his stories etched into her soul from the readings she had done to little Gwayne, to Jaehaerys. In times of darkness and fear, she had been inspired by the books that had been written about him, about his sisters. He had been her friend, though he had not known her and had never been in her presence. She had dreamed as girl, of touching Balerion the Dread, of meeting Aegon and his sisters. 

Her son is Aegon Targaryen. 

And it scares her beyond belief. A daughter, the daughter she had prayed for, wouldn't be of any value. No more than anyone else in the world, for she was marriable and wealthy, but so were many other daughters of many other Houses. A daughter would have less claim to the throne than the Princess Rhaenyra, therefore her threat to both the princess and Daemon would be lessened. 

However, that was simply impossible now. Her child, her boy, was here and she could do nothing to mold his sex into something that fit more into her plans.  _ By the Gods, why did I have to have a son?  _ It was like the Gods laughed at her, for They saw her ugliness of soul and frailty of mind, and they knew how greedy and cruel her heart could be so they gave her a new weapon. An heir to the Throne,  _ only  _ if Viserys should put aside his daughter. And surely the man had no intentions to-- why should he? 

His pale little shadow would be a fine queen, surely there was no doubt. All the lords of the kingdoms had already swore fealty to her as the heir to the Throne. They would defend her rights of succession. Not only that, Rhaenyra had taken her place as her father's cupbearer, serving him at the table, at tourneys, and at court. To see him was to see her, for she was there with him at all times. Alicent supposed the only time she wasn't around was when he joined his queen in bed, though that was in poor taste. 

Already fearing an ache in her head, Alicent presses her lips to her son's petal soft forehead. Her father will be overjoyed at his birth, already scheming to put this boy child on that throne, and she would get an earful from the moment he arrived to meet Aegon. 

Tah! Let him come! Nothing could bring her from the Seven Heavens, for she had a son. A child! Her child, her legacy, her hopes! 

"The world will be thoughtless and cruel, sweet boy. And we will be surrounded by greedy vultures." She whispers to her son. "But we will endure it, no?" 

 

_ __ _

 

"His chambers will be scrubbed every morning and every night," Alicent tells Jeyne Cuy firmly, unyielding in her march towards her own chambers. In her arms, her fat and jolly infant yawned with a soft slap of his pink lips. 

Trailing behind, Jeyne Cuy nodded frantically, motioning at Lady Janice Tully to follow along quicker and take head of the Queen's words. A smile tugging at her lips, Alicent felt every part a true queen. 

"When the boy cries, he will be brought to me-- unless of course I am in court or when the King comes to me for the night. If he can be soothed by other means than the breast, you will instruct his nursemaid to do so. If I am otherwise occupied or not in the mood, you may call upon Wylla to do the deed." 

"Yes, Your Grace." Jeyne Cuy replies hurriedly, with her sweet bell of a voice. Her skirts flutter as she hurries to keep pace with her queen. With a wider smile, Alicent speeds up her step, looking graceful when the true cause of her success was her shortened skirts, but let them think her an elegant, able woman. 

"His sheets will be changed every morning and night as well. Fresh, clean linen will be the only thing to touch the prince, do you understand? Janice?"

The Tully girl's voice is warm and thoughtful, "Yes, Your Grace. Fresh linen." 

"Good." Alicent pauses, lingering by the doors leading outside towards the Chambers of the Hand-- her father's chambers. She stops, taking a deep breath, smiling down at her boy. Big violet eyes blinked back at her sleepily, a small hand stretching out in a fist. "I want his toys to be cleaned before they are given to him. And only a handful of women will attend him, including you both. Jeyne, as his nursemaid, I expect a great deal from you." 

"I'm honored, Your Grace." 

Alicent smiles softly, "No, you aren't. It will be harder work and you will run a household of maids and ladies, but I'm sure your father is thrilled. My father would have been if I was given such a position when I was a young girl." She lays her hand against the girl's shoulder. "I have very few ladies I truly enjoy, but you and Lady Janice are among them. I'm elevating you high as to attend the prince because I value you both so dearly. When he is older, you will return to my attendance." 

Lady Jeyne Cuy's smile is bright and cheerful, and she nods her head thoughtfully. "I  _ truly _ am honored, Your Grace. And not for the sake of my House or my position at court. It must take a great deal of trust to let your son be in the arms and care of another woman." 

Alicent bows her head, a small smile spreading across her face.  _ Not trust _ , she thinks coldly for she did not trust anyone at court, except for her husband, her little brother, and  _ occasionally  _ her father. It was  _ fear _ . It took a great deal of fear to let her son out of her arms, for she feared many things. She feared Daemon Targaryen with such great hatred for her burning through his veins, she feared her Father's ambitious for her new son, for Gwayne as he considered swearing an oath to the Kingsguard, for herself and her family. If she is  _ loved _ for her trust, if her son is loved by the people of the court, then they are safe. If they are not loved, that is when the dangers come forth. 

And Jeyne will love him. And so will Janice Tully, for how could someone look upon this sweet, fat babe and not fall deeply in love with his pink little lips when they smile, and his beautiful violet eyes, and his good natured cry? They will love him, as his maids will  _ love  _ him, and then the court will follow. It was fear that drove Alicent, and she had much of it. 

"I don't suppose we will go this way." Alicent decides, adjusting the boy in her arms. "Father will have to wait until Aegon is older to see him. I won't have him in those dirty chambers without being sure Father even has the time to see him." And apart of her feels terrible about that, utterly terrible. For Alicent is cruel and fearful, and she can already hear the whisperings of his greed in her ears.  _ Your Grace _ , he will say to her husband in their private moments together.  _ Your Grace, surely you cannot suppose to have a son and not name him your heir. The throne goes first to males, Your Grace.  _ And then Viserys would turn his sunshine to grey skies for his attitude would solemn. 

Alicent didn't want that. She had fallen in love with her king's warmth and good smile. To upset him would break her heart. 

"I think Aegon would enjoy fresh air." Alicent decides. "We'll stroll the gardens, I think." 

And when she walks, her ladies follow after her.  _ Follow after her.  _ For she was a queen, truly a queen.

But she does  _ not  _ feel secure as one. 

_ __ _

 

The King's voice is warm and soft, "You must be very careful with him." His hands guide his daughter's grip on her new brother. 

Alicent sits across from them, a goblet of wine in her hands, watching with a horrific clarity. If he falls, if he tumbles or is dropped, she's uncertain she can catch him in time, but she will try. Her fingers are tight against her goblet, and she feels them go numb from her grip. 

"He looks like you, Father." Rhaenyra says gently, smiling up at him. Viserys peers down at the boy, nodding in agreement. 

"He does, I think. He has my nose." 

_ No!  _ Alicent wants to shriek.  _ No, has a Tyrell nose! He has my mother's nose. He looks like me. He's mine!  _ But she doesn't cry out or wail, doesn't ask for their repentance and doesn't offer her forgiveness for their blunder. Those feelings are hers and hers alone, and are  _ not  _ to be shared so freely with those around her. Alicent stays quiet, sips her wine with numb hands, and pretends that it doesn't sting at her heart. 

Rhaenyra continues, "Do you suppose him to be a Septon? Or a Maester?" 

"I'm not sure yet, my little Rhae. He's too little for me to know what he will be." Viserys clicks his tongue thoughtfully, and Alicent watches how he traces a finger across the boy's face. "I think I see a little warrior in him, a fierce little thing. Did you know when he was born, I could hear him cry from where I sat outside the Queen's chambers? A warrior's cry!" 

Alicent closes her eyes, letting his words wash softly over her skin like a gentle breeze across her skin. Yes, her husband had sat outside her chambers with his Kingsguard and closest companions. For he was fearful man, and he had lost a wife already to childbirth. A man could not be in a woman's chambers during her labor, but there was little to be said if he wished to remain directly outside of those chambers. It made her feel unimaginably  _ loved _ , to be so dearly looked after by her husband. It was unaccustomed feeling to think her life was worth a great deal to this man that years ago she would not have imagined herself being held by. There was something in his presence that seared away her worries, her fears, her own self doubts and punishing dark thoughts. It seemed he truly was the morning's first light, the beacon of strength for her, for she had never been loved by or loved anyone so greatly as Viserys. 

Her eyes must have remained closed for much longer than she had thought, for soon she is startled awake by her own falling hand. Her green eyes flutter open.

"Alice," Viserys call out quietly. "Are you tired, my love?" 

Alicent's smile is content and schooled, a practiced neutral. "Running a court and raising children can be taxing, my lord husband, but I'm alright." She turned her head to watch her daughter. "Rhaenyra, do you like your new brother?" 

She hums thoughtfully, "Very much so, Mother." Rhaenyra held him closer to her, angling his neck so very carefully. In her son's tight little fist was her daughter's braid, the same hairstyle of the great Queen Visenya. (Though she's certain that Visenya  _ never  _ wore cheerful yellow ribbons in her hair.) "I vow to protect him, and when I am queen, I will make him my Hand, for a girl ought to always have her brother by her side. You have a brother, don't you, Mother? The boy with the freckles? Is he your true companion?" 

Alicent smiles at the mention of her sweet Gwayne, carefully putting aside her feelings of disaster at Rhaenyra's words. If her Father heard such things come from the child's mouth, if he  _ thought  _ for even a moment that perhaps his grandson would be passed over for the Iron Throne, it would very quickly turn into a miserable situation. Alicent decides in that very moment to remain absolutely neutral on the subject unless something in the future manages to persuade her to one way or another. Even as a child, Rhaenyra values her brother, and she promises him a life of power by her throne. As Hand of the Queen, Aegon will be as her Father is currently, standing  _ behind  _ the throne rather than sitting upon it.  _ Puppeteers, puppeteers should have a place in the theatre and a place in the court!  _ It was not an unhappy existence, though a very tiring one. Alicent  _ wants  _ her son to be king, but she is willing to settle for the sake of her good daughter and for the sake of her son's own peaceful life. Making an enemy of her daughter when her son was still a squalling infant would do little than upset the entire realm. 

Alicent would bide her time. She would settle. She would remain neutral. 

With any luck, a solution to her many stacking problems would find itself and she would be able to find great peace. 

"Ah yes, my little brother Gwayne, daughter." 

"Do you love him very much?" 

Alicent stands, moving closer to the father and his children. She kneels on the floor by her daughter's skinny knees, peering down at the infant with his sister's golden crown of hair in his hand. He did not yank it, but the threat that he  _ could  _ was ever present. It seemed a metaphor for his own position in life. He was too young to contend for the throne, but he  _ could _ . He could forever have a tight grip in his sister's hair.

"When I lost my mother, as you did not too long ago, I took it upon myself to look after my brother. He was only a boy, barely past nine name days when we lost her. Do you know what I did?" 

Rhaenyra silently shook her head. Her eyes are dark with interest, and she leans forward to hear better, as if she might understand better if she was closer.

"I made sure he had clothing that fit properly, and I made sure he knew his prayers for a motherless child needs more luck from the Seven than most. I kept him close to me and protected him fiercely for we only had each other in this world. I have had to forgive  _ many  _ offences to my person, and I've had to put up with much, but he is still of my blood, therefore I must endure it. Do you know why I tell you all this?" 

"No, Mother." 

"Because I wish you to vow something to me, Rhaenyra. You must vow to always love your brother. Vow to me if he loses his mother much too soon that you will guide him patiently and with great care. Promise me that you will forgive him offences against you, even in the worst of situations. Even if the things he does are unforgivable, you will find a way to settle it. Because  _ you  _ are his elder sister, and therefore you are the navigator to guide his voyage." 

Rhaenyra's purple eyes gleam in the light, childishly wide and wondrously self important. "I do so swear." She says without hesitation, smiling down at the brother in her arms.

Aegon chooses right then to yank his sister's hair. 

 

**_________ **

 

**_107 AC_ **

 

Alicent  _ is _ content. 

Or at least she was content until--

What time was it now? Her eyes shifted to the window on the right side of her chambers. The sun was about even in the middle, so it was midday. It hadn't  _ been  _ midday when her father decided to burst into her chambers, ranting obnoxiously of Viserys' obstinateness and dotish faith. 

"He will not listen to me! He will not listen!" 

"Will he not?" 

Alicent kneels on the ground, tickling her son's plump neck until he toddled away from her. He stumbles and struggles his way to the chair a foot away, laughs joyfully at his accomplishment, and toddles back to her to be tickled again. 

"Are you even listening to me, Alicent?" 

Alicent straightens her back, giving him a withering stare.  _ Do you not-- are you slow, child? I always thought you quick-witted, but now I’m not so convinced!  _ He always spoke poorly to her, punished her for keeping her gaze to the sky, to the world around her, to her own  _ son _ . 

"Gonny, Gonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny, you are sweet little son!" She sang playfully, tickling the boy again. He lets out a squeal, batting at her hands joyfully, bouncing on his toes. "And l would love you from Pentos to Dragonstone, even to Bandallon!"

"Ma-ma," Her boy spits out slowly, but he jumps into her arms when his grandfather slam down his books onto the writing nook in the corner of Alicent's room. She does not flinch, just holds her son's face to her bosom, and her eyes narrow as they turn to him. A muffled sniffle escapes from him. 

"You've scared him." Alicent says icily. "I hear you, but I have nothing to say on the matter. What shall I say?"

Otto Hightower's black eyes boiled with anger like thick tar, and he stared at her as if she was less than him. As if he himself were the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and she was a simple chambermaid that spoke out of line. Her chin rises as does her chest, and she looks up at him with the stare of a woman scorned. The same look she perceives she will be gifted by Daemon Targaryen if ever she sees him again. 

"I cannot understand how you--" He seethes, his spittle flying towards her. Alicent stands in one swift motion, tossing her son onto her hip. With a flick of her finger, she causes Alyn Beesbury to wisely flee the room along with her personal guards. The silk of her gowns fly with her like wings on a pretty little cardinal, all red grace and soft fluttering. Her fingers stretch out to touch his chest. 

"You will  _ quiet _ ." Alicent says slowly. Deliberate. "I do not know who you think you speak to, but  _ I  _ am Alicent Targaryen, the wife of Viserys, first of his name, and mother of his children. And you, Father, are the Hand of the King, but do you understand who I am? You may his Hand, but I am his wife. And I will cut off his Hand if I need to, for he has another. Now you will stay quiet. You will listen to me speak." 

Her father silences himself. Whether out of shock at her outburst or to give himself another moment to fume, she does not know. But with her heart racing madly in her chest and her legs trembling uncontrollably under her gown, Alicent talks quick before he interrupts her. Bravery had never been one of her many talents, for she always knew when to silence herself in front of her father less she face his wrath and quick-temper. 

"You once said to me that you would be pleased to have me, even if you had no sons. You said I was a smart girl. 'You’re not a delicate flower. You’re a strong stone tower', you said to me." Alicent's laugh is short and cold. "And you were right. I am not delicate. I'm strong. And I'm a smart girl, and you ought to be pleased with me. My boy has not yet been weaned, and you think already of his coronation. Of his reign, of his future queen, of his future." 

"As you ought to as his mother--"

Her voice booms, "I said  _ silence _ !"

His lips snap shut to turn into a twisted sneer. Fists clench, but he will not strike her. Once or twice, he allowed Alicent's governess to take a switch to her bottom, but he never hit her as a girl. He will not hit her now as a woman either, for hitting the queen is treason. It means death. 

"You think me  _ stupid _ . But I am not. I am patient and politically minded, two things you've never managed to wield. If I were to press his claim so young, his enemies would rip him apart. A babe cannot protect himself nor can Aegon grow up under such conditions. And besides, there are laws in place that would challenge his claim. It would be a political  _ disaster _ ." 

His thick eyebrows rise. "And what do you think to know?" 

"Alysanne's Laws, Father. I'm sure you know it well. It reaffirms the right of the eldest child to inherit the properties, titles, and assets of the late father. It also forbids a man to disinherit his first wife's children as his heirs, therefore he cannot give his titles first to later born children. The law doesn't specify whether or not the eldest child of the first wife need be son or daughter, therefore by the law of King Jaehaerys, Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Do you think the Rhaenyra and her supporters will not use this against us?"

Her father's exhale is exaggeratedly loud, "Oh, my daughter, you foolish girl. You speak of being the queen, the highest lady of the realm, and still you know nothing. Laws," Otto Hightower says slowly, as if she were a simpleton again rather than the first Lady of the Realm. "Laws are made by kings. And kings can get rid of the laws, if persuaded correctly. They can do what they like." 

She narrows her eyes. 

"Those laws  _ protect _ the women of the realm,  _ all  _ of them. Even the low born. You would have these laws be rid of so your grandson can sit on a shiny throne, and so you can stand behind him. Even if it hurts those poor women."

Father shrugs slightly, "A man must do what he must for his family. Sacrifices must be made." 

"Not by me. That's  _ not  _ the sort of Queen I will be. If you fight for that throne _now_ , you fight alone." 

 

_ __ _

 

Jeyne Cuy runs a comb through her long mousy brown hair. 

"And he went so easily to sleep, Your Grace, that you would have thought him kissed by the Mother." 

"Good," Alicent says softly. "Good, I am pleased." But her mind was heavy and her thoughts were poisonous and scattered. "Jeyne, who is your mother?" 

Jeyne doesn't even pause. 

"Alys Costayne, my lady, younger sister of Lord Costayne."

"Was she a first or second wife?" 

"Third, my lady."

"So I assume you have siblings?" 

"Two brothers. Three sisters." 

Alicent feels the tug of a knot deep in her hair, leans into the pull before it hurts, and ponders that. 

"You'll inherit little."

"Very little, Your Grace." 

Alicent sighs, "Which is why you were sent to me, so you rise with me. If I favored you, you would be given much-- no, no, don't apologize. My father did the same. I'm trying to understand my people, Jeyne. Look at little Alyn Beesbury, great grandson of the Master of Coin, Lord Lyman. His father is Alan Beesbury-- imagine that! Sharing a name with your father, changed by only one letter." She ties the ribbons of her nightgown herself, fiddling with the silly fabric. Her babbling often shown her nervousness, her anxieties. The greater fears and overwhelming thoughts that plagued her mind. When she was with Jaehaerys, she read so she could not babble. 

"That's very strange, Your Grace."

"Jeyne stop."

The brushing stopped. Alicent spun around on the polished wood chair, turning to look at her favorite lady. The girl fell to her knees obediently, peering up at her through thin lashes, awaiting her orders. 

"Were you educated well? Many don't bother educating their girls at all, even less a fifth child." 

"I was taught music, dancing and very little High Valyrian. Most of my education was towards needlework and the running of a household."

Alicent thinks for a long moment. "Would you be able to tell me some history?" 

"I could try, Your Grace." Jeyne offers in response, turning her to the side, as if that ought to help her to better remember any lessons at all. 

"Tell me of Queen Visenya." 

Jeyne smiles at the easiness of the question. She begins to prattle on about the famous queen. "Queen Visenya was a warrior queen, not so much known for her beauty, but for her skills in combat. She was as much a warrior as her husband, King Aegon."

"And Rhaenys?" 

"A beautiful queen with her court filled with mummers and musicians. I was told she flew more than her brother and sister atop her dragon, um, Vhagar."

"Meraxes. Visenya rode Vhagar."

"My apologies."

Alicent waves her off. "And what of the next queen? Alyssa Velaryon?" 

It takes her a very long moment to speak again. Ailment could see the confusion and frustration run across the girl's face, her big eyes narrowing to try to keep the right information in her head. 

"She," Jeyne says slowly, unconvincingly. "She-- Queen Alyssa desired to be loved by her court. To be admired and praised?"

Alicent smiles widely, pleased. "She did. Now who was queen after her? Maegor's wife?" 

"He had several, didn't he? But the first was...she was a Hightower, as you are! She died childless, I know that. And then, Alys Harroway, and she was tortured to death by the third queen. Tyanna was a sorceress. Next was Queen Elinor, who gave birth to a monster. Jeyne Westerling had a horribly disfigured child too. And Rhaena, I don't know much about her all. Any of them, really." 

"I'll give you an easier one then. Queen Alysanne." 

"She was loved by all, high and low born. She held courts with women to hear their ills, and was known for her patience. For her  _ beauty.  _ A fine archery, hunter, and dragon ride. But I know her mostly for her charity!" 

"As you ought to," Alicent pulls Jeyne's face up to look at her. "I have been queen for two years now, but what will I be known for? I must decide what kind of queen I will be. I wish to be as kind as Alysanne and as feared as Visenya, but with a court as grand as Rhaenys."

Jeyne blinks in surprise, "But, my lady, you cannot be known for those things, for they are already given away to the former queens. Rhaenys the Merry, Visenya the Fierce, and Alysanne the Good. You cannot be Queen Alicent the Merry, Fierce, and Good."

"You're right." Alicent thinks about it for a long moment. "Then I will be Alicent the Peaceful."

 

_ __ _

 

It is when she hears Viserys whisper to their son in High Valyrian that she realizes how little she knows of the language. 

When she hears Rhaenyra speak it, Alicent has unimaginable dread as to not being able to understand. (She didn't want any secrets in these walls, any whispered words she could not understand, anything at all that might challenge--)

_ You'll never learn it, my sweet little summer flower _ ,  _ if you don't take the time to read every day.  _ Her mother once whispered into her hair, holding a book of foreign words upon her lap.  _ It's easier to learn the words by reading them to know them, and then trying to speak.  _ But of course Alicent had a mind only for books of great interest to herself, stories of huge dragons and maidens wielding swords. And the language lives inside her head, half learned, a mess of words she cannot use correctly.

Which is why she calls forth Septa Anera from the Starry Sept. The Sept that Alicent had prayed at many a time in Oldtown, kneeling down low before the white etch of the Maiden in the cold, shining black marble.  _ Let my father love my mother again _ , she had prayed, staring up at the smiling face of a goddess that sang a beautiful with each breath she took and danced in the eyes of lovers. In the end, the Maiden does little to aid in the seemingly doomed marriage, and Helaena Tyrell's bleeding heart never heals, only scars over much older scars. 

Septa Anera comes with haste, for all people come with haste to their queen. When she arrives, she's brought directly to Alicent in her sitting rooms. 

"Your Grace." If Septa Anera is surprised by the sight of the queen, kneeling down with four,  _ open  _ leather-bound books piled on her knees, and her hair loose around her shoulders, she says nothing. "It's an honor to be called upon."

Alicent smiles when she looks up, "Iksan kreni naejot ūndegon ao." The words are thick on her tongue, flopping from her mouth like stones down a mountain. Such a beautiful language wasted on an unskilled mouth.

Septa Anera looks curiously at her with wide green eyes. 

"It is a pleasure to see you, as well. Ao ȳzaldrīzes valyrīha, issa dāria?"

"I speak very little Valyrian, Septa." Alicent murmurs truthfully, setting aside her books. She brushes her hair away from her face, standing up to face the woman. "Truly, that's why I've called you here, Septa." 

"You've called me to speak to you, Your Grace?" 

"No, Septa. To teach me." Alicent sighs gently, placing a hand against her own face, hiding the flush overtaking her. "All highborn ladies ought to speak it, but I never was one for language lessons. I preferred books of the common tongue, but I am a Targaryen bride and mother to Targaryen children. I wish to speak the language, and I have searched for an adequate teacher." 

Septa Anera studies her face as Alicent studies her back. She sees light red hair, like unripened strawberries, peeking out from behind the plain grey headdress. Lines of laughter sat at the edge of her mouth and eyes, lines of stress at her forehead, and she had a slight scar on her cheek. 

"I must ask, my queen, why you've sent for me? I know King's Landing to be filled with many obedient, godly, well-spoken septons and septa that could very well teach you."

"None of them knew Valyrian from a teacher such as Septa Maegelle Targaryen." Alicent replies gently, offering her arm to Septa Anera. "I'm aware you two were close. I was a very small girl when I first caught sight of Septa Maegelle at the Starry Sept in Oldtown. No woman was more devout nor looked so blessed by the Gods than she."

"She was a woman of great virtue and knowledge," Septa Anera agreed hesitantly. "But I cannot understand why…"

"A woman that  _ died  _ from the disease she was nursing children of was a woman that I wish to idolize and hold great respect for. Therefore, for such, woman as her to regard you as a friend means you are a septa of great value as well."

Septa Anera has a quick look of humble pride and cold embarrassment, shaking her head. "My Lady, I could not possibly--" 

"I need a teacher for my little son as well." Alicent continues. "For a Targaryen boy must know Valyrian. I know you have many charities through the Sept, therefore in the time I keep you, not more than a year, many donations will be given in the name of the Seven throughout the kingdom." 

Septa Anera blinks again for a long moment. 

"I would be honored, Your Grace." 

Alicent's smile is utterly victorious.

 

**_________ **

 

**_109 AC_ **

 

Her daughter is born a fortnight too early.

Alicent doesn't see the girl for two days after her birth, for she fades quickly out of life after managing to struggle the poor thing out of her. The labor had been agonizing, as if someone had managed to light a fire in her belly, setting her aflame to cook from the inside. It had been long, strenuous, painful, and no amount of prayers managed to soothe her pains.  _ Please _ ,  _ please, Mother, Mama, bring me down the Stranger's path with you or let the child escape me!  _

And then, after almost twenty hours, out of her comes a quietly cried, fat little girl. The girl Alicent had prayed for, the girl that she had pleaded for the Gods for years and years before when she had her son. And by the Seven is this daugher worth the blood, the pain, the years and years of impatiently waiting for her daughter (the one born too early) was made in the image of the Gods. Nothing so beautiful as this peach-skinned little thing could have been made without divine intervention. 

Her Helaena was born quiet and buxom, and she waits patiently for two days to meet her mother. She waits, and when Alicent had awakened enough to ask about her child, she's brought in with wide lilac eyes that remind her of Daemon. But she pushes aside that though, holding this sunshine child. For Helaena has none of Alicent at all in her, but that matters not because daughters belong to their mothers, and she wants a child like Viserys. 

Viserys, who was jolly and fat and  _ pleasing  _ to even the lords and smallfolk, who lavished the court with countless feasts, and tournaments, and grand balls. Viserys, who sat outside her chambers when she gave birth, who was always so soft and gentle with her in their marital bed, that had to kiss her good morning and good night everyday. Viserys, who didn't feel a thing like sharp dragonfire, but instead was the warmth of the sun on one's skin during a day of spring, the heat of the fire in the hearth during wintertime, the gleam of gold on one's face during a sunset. 

Helaena, fat and plain featured infant Helaena, held every feature of a true Valyrian child. From her scrunchy nose to her wide pink lips and round rosy cheeks, she was the most beautiful thing Alicent had ever seen in her entire life. Even more lovely than her brother and half-sister. 

Alicent, for once in her life, does not worry about childbed fever, nor thrones nor about her father's meddling, or even about her own fears and ambitious. 

_ All will be well _ , she tells herself, burying her face in light silver hair. She strokes her daughter's little cheek, and when the girl's lips turn upwards into as close of a smile as a newly born babe can, she  _ knows _ it to be true. 

 

_ __ _

 

_ Let Daemon play at war _ , Viserys had once said to Otto Hightower, to his wife Alicent, and to the rest of the court.  _ It keeps him out of trouble.  _

Oh, but a man like Daemon would never be pleased to be king of such a small thing as the Stepstones, and he would come for what he perceived to be his throne. Before, long before her children were born, Alicent had not been afraid of him. Oh no, he had been her freedom, her great love, her moment of naïvity in a world that had once held no love for her when all she had wanted was for someone to  _ want  _ her. 

She knows his heart better than she knows her own, and Alicent knows how demented Daemon was when he saw offence against his person.  _ Stupid, stupid husband! Sending his whore away!  _ She had once smiled when Mysaria had lost her child, once felt great pride at Daemon's misery, even at the expense of a poor  _ poor  _ unborn little thing. But now she could not find it in herself to feel such hatefulness, and she realizes her error at the ill-will she wished on that babe. With its loss, it cemented the absolute fury that Daemon must feel towards his brother. 

And his hatred extended to Alicent now further than a lover scorned. What was it she had said to him so many years ago?  _ When the King’s child is born, you will be heir to nothing.  _ She had been wrong on which child, for Queen Aemma's babe had died quick, but she was right all the same. The birth of her son shoved Daemon further down the line of succession, and if Viserys saw fit to allow sweet little Helaena a chance for the throne, than he was behind her as well. 

Daemon must seethe at the thought of child of Alicent's womb removing him from the succession, even more so than the thought that she had put him aside for his brother. Her enemy was not only the court, the supporters of Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra herself, but more so Daemon Targaryen. For no man was ever so loved and hated in the whole Seven Kingdoms, and he could potentially be a risk to her children's futures.

Which is why when two small wooden chests are presented to her, Alicent does _n_ _ot_ allow them to be given to the children without her inspection. The inscription on the parchment sitting atop the letters chill her to the core; _Gifts to my beloved nephew and niece, for their hands ONLY. With Regards, your uncle Daemon_ _Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone._

He thought himself  _ still _ , the heir to the throne when both of her children and Princess Rhaenyra were all alive and well. Alicent stares at the gifts for a very long moment, almost afraid to even  _ open  _ them for fear of what she will find inside. A venomous scorpion meant to prick the skin of her little boy when he gleefully opened the present? 

Alicent looks to her brother, now a man grown. He stands tall and broad-shouldered, his golden cloak draped across one side. It gleamed at her mockingly, for Daemon had introduced the concept of the golden cloaks for the soldiers of the City Watch. 

"Open them," She says firmly, though her hands tremble. "The one meant for Helaena first-- with the latch lined with rubies." 

_ For rubies are cut much too softly and more elegant, befitting a woman's hand rather than a man's. Men are diamonds, Alicent, stronger than any other gem, and far more sharp.  _ Daemon had told her years and years ago when she had first flowered as a girl of only fifteen name days. He had slipped a bracelet fitted with rubies on her wrist, a tiny red dragon looping around her wrist. She had donated it to fund the poor soon after he departed to Dragonstone. 

Gwayne does, keeping his sister behind him as he does. It creaks open. Alicent peers down, eyebrows furrowing. It was a rattle made of a seashell, the same as one might see a small crab in. A piece of leather closed off the opening of the shell, and a piece of carved wood was connected by that same leather. 

"It's just a toy, Alice." Gwayne opens the other, revealing a small wooden dagger. It was just the size for a small child's grip with soft satin around the handle, and the wood was sanded down at the blade for it to be completely blunt. It was a pretty ornate little thing, but she didn't trust it at all. "Just toys. Perhaps he has softened to the idea of being an uncle?" 

"No," Alicent hisses unkindly. Her bones were chilled with paranoia, her mind reeling. "He says Prince of Dragonstone in the letter.  _ Prince _ ." She moves forward, slamming the trunks shut. "And to say for their hands only? No.  _ No _ !" 

"Alice, calm down." 

She turns sharply on her heel, swinging towards them. "Burn them!" Alicent cries out madly, throwing her hands at him. Hysterics take her. She slams a fist down onto a table. "They've been poisoned, I'm sure! Or touched by someone with a disease. Get rid of them-- I cannot bear to see them. I want them burned! _Burn them_!" 

Gwayne hurriedly throws the trunks into the flames of the fire. The flame burst, crackling loudly, the heat singeing her cheeks. But it felt like relief pouring through her, like balm against a wound. Water against a thirty mouth.

She has kept her children safe.

"The Princess Rhaenyra had also received a gift-- should I go retrieve it from her?" 

Alicent takes a shuddering breath that sounds half like a sob, "No. No!" She says hysterically. "No, let her keep it." 

_ __ _

Princess Rhaenyra does not die from the shining jade necklace she receives from Daemon, nor does she die from the rings with polished black pearls that rest against her pale fingers. 

But Alicent does not regret burning those gifts. She will  _ never  _ regret protecting her children, oh no, how could she? They were the light of her life, and none would hurt them, but--

Staring at that girl with her necklace of jade, she wonders, very sullenly, when she began to regard Rhaenyra as different than her own children. 

And another part wonders why she had hoped Daemon's gift  would have cleared away her problems for her.

_ __ _

"How dare he?" Father says, no longer yelling or shouting, but instead taking a quiet approach. "He tells me I am  _ too  _ insistent? That I am  _ 'too much'  _ for the small council to handle, and too inclined to defy him." 

Alicent tucks away his shirts into a large trunk, folding them delicately. "I'm sure you will return to favor soon, Father. Truly, I believe that." But inside, deep in the core of her, she's pleased beyond anything that he's been struck down by her husband.

For knowledge is  _ nothing  _ without wisdom, and he should have heeded his daughter's warning about playing a long term game. Alicent wants her blood on the throne as much as any other, but she understands she must smile and endure until a moment to strike comes. 

"Tell me,  _ honestly _ , daughter. Did you have a part in my dismissal?" 

"Of course not, Papa." 

"I said be honest, daughter. You warned me once before. Did you sever the king's hand?" 

"No." She says delicately. "No, of course not. It struck it off himself." 

Father throws himself down onto the ottoman, burying his face into his hands. He shakes for a moment, his broad shoulders trembling with his grief. 

"I can't understand." He says brokenly. 

Alicent smiles warmly, "You must understand-- while it’s on my mind-- it must be said that you want too much." She echoes, thinking of a mother that died in pain, whose corpse was left unguarded and unattended to by her daughter because she was occupied by a dying king. "You wanted to go up a peg on the ladder, and you did, but now you've tumbled your way back down. Such is life for a man that tried to pry a throne ought of the hands of a king."

"Alicent," Father's eyes are black and teary, and he shakes his head frantically. A single glance, and she can see the plea in his eyes. "Alicent, I did what I did for my family." 

"You say that so often, but it seems to me that  _ I  _ am doing more for this family than you ever did. Call me spiteful to you, call me angry unjustly, call me bitter towards you for past offences, but do not insult me by insuating I am gulliable. And me? Well, I can call you foolish. You've been foolish all your life. A man can lose his power like  _ this _ ." She snaps her fingers loudly. "And you deserve to lose it. Because you've foolish. You think I don't want my son to succeed his father? I do, the Seven know I do, but I will keep the peace. I'm  _ waiting  _ for my chance. You're putting a target on my little defenseless son, foolishly advocating for Viserys to change his mind. What was it you always said?  _ There's a method to these things _ ." 

Father wisely keeps his mouth shut, watching her. And she feels empowered, more so than any other woman in the entire world, even more than Visenya Targaryen must have ever felt atop her dragon. 

Alicent continues madly, "I don't want Rhaenyra on that throne. I  _ fear  _ her, as I fear Daemon Targaryen. She's a threat to my children-- she quarrels with Aegon. She has yet to even  _ meet  _ Helaena. Her false promises mean little to me now. I want my children to live. I want them happy."

"Then why let your husband send me away? As his Hand, I was powerful." 

"As his queen, I am  _ more so _ ." Alicent explains. She finishes folding his shirts, some sewn by her own hand years and years ago, and some sewn by her mother. She recognized the stitches, all perfectly straight but too loose. All in golden thread. "I know not to upset him, not to force him into upsetting his daughter. But these things, they will all work out, I assure you. One way or another, my son will be king." 

Father shakes his slowly.

"You think you can do it peacefully. You think you can find a solution for the realm, for your own comfort, but you won't be able to." 

"Go back to Oldtown, Papa." She says fondly. "You're not longer just a second son. You're the father of a queen. Take my allowance of gold and live your life outside of libraries and throne rooms. I can do this. I will do this. By I will do it the correct way."

"Alicent," He says softly. Mournfully. "Alicent, my sweet daughter, sometimes I think you far more ambitious than myself." 

**_________ **

**_110 AC_ **

The singer's voice was loud and brilliant, " _ The maid in the tower had eyes of jade green, and she lived in the skies-- Oh! What a sight to be seen!" _

Alicent laughs, shaking her head. She gives a look at Viserys, who smiles widely back at her with a gleam of great mirth in his brilliant violet eyes. 

"Mama!" Aegon cries out, tugging sharply at her skirts. "Mama, you have green eyes!"

_ " _ It's about her, my boy! He calls it the " _ Green-Eyed Maid in the Tower _ ", written in honor of your mother. It's a brilliant song, isn't it, sweet boy?" Viserys tickles Helaena's little chin until she snorts in laughter, kicking her little legs. "Why don't you take your sister to dance? She's mastered swaying." He sets her down, and Aegon reluctantly took her hands.

"I don't like dancing with babies," Aegon whined, but did as he was bid all the same. He was a wild boy as of late, taking to tantrums and pinching the women at court. Lavender-eyed Helaena laughs loudly, toddling her way towards the empty space near the table, away from all of the other dancers. The music played loud and the wine flowed plentiful, and her husband happily ate his weight in wild boar.

It felt like a dream, and Alicent proudly adjusts her new son in her arms. The boy, a tiny little thing with soft wispy hair and tiny little fingers, was much smaller than her other babes. He was nearly  _ half  _ the size of his brother, but Aemond has come into the world fiercely screaming. 

And she was proud all the same.

To celebrate, Viserys had bought out all of the wares of local wine merchants, giving crowds of smallfolk free wine and declaring a day of feasting. The Lords and Ladies of all the Noble Houses arrived to praise the queen, to see the royal family as it grew, and it had quickly turned into a night of feasting and dancing, of celebrations throughout the entirety of King's Landing.

Earlier this day, there had been a great joust and melee, and even a hunt, with many prizes to be won which were funded by the crown, and there were even a few men knighted. Mummers and singers flocked to the city, each bearing plays written in her honor, poems written about her beauty, and songs composed for her.  _ A young and fertile queen, something these people had never known before with Aemma.  _ And Alicent shined in the attention, took the glory and reverence with a polite smile and a practised wave. 

She felt she  _ deserved  _ this. In four years of marriage, she had managed to give the king two healthy sons and a sweet-tempered daughter. And she got so very little praise before this moment, before when she was a young girl scrubbing  _ piss  _ out of soiled sheets for a king that did not recognize her most days. 

(Though she would never regret those long days, those terrified nights when he cried for his wife, his Alysanne, pleaded for her to be brought to him.  _ Never _ . But praise felt wonderful.)

Aemond whines gently in her arms, but she soothes him with the gentle rocking of her arms. Her eyes are on Rhaenyra as the girl of thirteen switches her dance partner from Ser Criston Cole over to Ser Harwin Strong. The girl looks so  _ happy _ to be dancing, to be there with those men she had come to favor, that Alicent smiles at her. 

It is in moments like these that she feels especially wicked for bearing ill feelings towards such a young girl. 

"Alicent," Viserys whispers playfully to her, poking at her sides. She flinches from the touch, choking out a giggle. "Alicent, I have a new joke for her, my love." 

Alicent feigns surprise, "And you once said you were not a fool. Only a fool knows so many jokes. Well, go on then!"

"There was a noble man once, very big. Very fat.” Viserys slapped his own fat belly, much larger than when they had first met. She loved him the same for it. “And as he came across King’s Landing, he asked of another traveler: ‘Good sir, do you suppose I can go through the gate?’ He meant would the guards let him in without any papers. The traveler looked him up and down.  And he said, ‘Of course, my lord, for if a dragon could fit through, I’m sure you can too.’”

And though he's told her that same joke near a thousand times, she laughs into her hand. She laughs until there are tears pricking her eyes, and her lungs burn for fresh air. She laughs until he does too, until the whole world has faded away, until it's just the two of them. 

Until it's just Prince Viserys and Alicent Hightower meeting each in a hallway, without enemies or children or thrones or mental and physical hurts to keep them up at night. 

She laughs until she feels whole again, but of course all laughter must fade eventually. 

____


	5. those many things to say

 

____

 

_ Alicent screams when she sees her son. She wails and screams, thrashing against the hands of her husband, her other children, her own guards and maids. Those that try so desperately to keep her seperate from her boy, to keep the supposed gentlewoman with delicate sensibilities away from the ghastly sight as if she hadn't watched a man rot away as a girl.  _

_ Aemond was her boy. Her boy.  _

_ "Don't touch him!" She roars-- there's blood on her hands. "Only I will touch him!" Her hands dive forward again, grasping him, embracing him. There's blood on her hands. Thick, dark clotted blood. Her hands tremble madly, horrifically unsteady. Stupid, stupid, girl! Oh my own daughter. Have I never taught you how to sew properly? Ladies have steady hands. Fools shake like leaves in the wind. Her son is screaming too, wailing. So loud. Her arms wrap around him, and Alicent chokes on her own sobs, her voice turning a touch hysterical. _

_ "Bring me a maester!"  _

_ 'Not Gerardys!' Alicent does not think to add. 'Not him! By the Gods, that Targaryen whore has done enough. Not her fucking Maester!' _

_ Another voice echoes, "A maester! A maester for the prince!" But she pays it no mind at all, not even for a moment, because her son is in pain. Her child, the tiny little thing that was born only half of his brother's weight, this fruit of her womb, was in pain. And she could do little to alleviate it. His sobs, his tears of blood soaking into her white nightdress, all things she cannot stop. It sets her into a frenzy. She burns. Burns for vengeance, for blood that isn't her poor son's, for blackened bones and rolling heads, and she seethes. Alicent brings her son to her breast, tender and loving in each touch to his crimson face.  _

_ "I-- I--" He huffs for breath, clawing at her hands, her arms, her wrists. His screams have stopped for now, turned to sobs and whimpers and hyperventilating, but his pain has not faded. Perhaps it will never fade, cruelly reminding her poor child of what had been stolen by a bastard. Alicent releases him, grasping his face in her soft hands, examine every inch of the soft flesh. Blood smears across his lower neck in the shape of her fingers, but it pools beneath his chin despite it. His eye-- oh by the Gods!-- was no longer, just broken flesh and bleeding nothingness, tissues torn to shreds, some hanging inelegantly across his jaw. It was tinted a horrible pink, the same as his rosy cheeks on a cold winter's day, a stark contrast to the blackening crimson in the empty socket and the blood flowing like tears down his cheeks steadily. Her son had no eye.  _

_ Aemond has no eye. It had been-- been-- _

_ Stolen. Torn away by the blade of a bastard with an unimaginably cruel whore for a mother, no longer even in mourning for her son.  _

_ Alicent screams again, not quite in horror nor grief nor any other emotion of self pity or disgust that perhaps those around her thought she ought to. A delicate woman ought to. But she is not delicate, oh no she is a mother. And mothers aren't delicate, their fury made flesh. So she cries out once more, not in any soft emotion. No, no in fury, in wrath, a plea to the Seven for divine justice to be swiftly dealt out. _

_ She lets out a warrior's cry, meets Rhaenyra's eyes, and challenges her enemy.  _

**_________ **

 

**_112 AC_ **

 

She dreams of Death. 

She has not dreamt of death since she once watched it consume her poor sweet Jaehaerys, her good King. (Her father in all but blood). It terrifies her into a progress to the Sept of Oldtown, the Starry Sept with its black marble, and Aegon the Conqueror's footstops still echoing in her mind as he comes to be crowned.  _ By the Gods _ , she had prayed there in  _ that  _ Sept,  _ Let the Stranger pass me by in the night, and let us only be that. Strangers to each other.  _ But the nightmares plague her still, and she sees the ghosts of Death dance in her halls, in her room, in her gowns. The familiar odor of rot comes first to her, imagined by a nose much too keen to find it. Green gowns dance around her, the Queen dressed in white, and black gowns twirl opposite to them. They come together only  _ once _ , there in her dreams, pale hands hitching up their skirts that are heavy with blood. They intermingle, as if each step, every part of this dance was practiced again and again. 

Apart they go, each moving to opposite sides, clearing a path for the Stranger to come to the brown-haired queen in her white gown. The Stranger comes to her each night, however she has only seen its face once. As a child of ten and five, shivering by Jaehaery's cold bed, she dreamed of gleaming teeth like polished pearls, jaw and teeth clattering like wood chimes in the wind, with a silent voice to be heard at inhumane loudness. 

When she sees Death incarnate, when she sees the Stranger, she sees Rhaenyra's beautiful smile stare back at her from under a hood of blackened wool. Red ribbons slip from silver curls as she comes closer and closer--

Alicent wakes up quietly each time. She does not scream, for such was  _ not  _ the behavior of a woman in such power, and then she prays. Kneels down on her knees in front of the small etching of the Seven, and she  _ shakes _ . Trembles and prays, cries quietly and tries to understand her dreams. 

Rhaenyra will be her death. She has not slept well in months, all because of a girl of ten and five, only just flowered. She's terrified of a  _ child _ , a child for the sake of the Seven! A girl the same age as herself when she watched a man rot to death in his bed, wet from his own piss and tears, and she thinks of herself as foolish for fearing someone so young. 

Tonight, tonight she wanders through the nursery, carefully examining each of her three babes. Long ago, years ago, many times when the stench of Jaehaerys and his agonized groaning became too much for her heart and mind to bear, Alicent would wander the keep. Sometimes she even went back to her own household to watch her little brother sleep soundly in his feather bed. It had been different then, for his development into a man had been all of her worries. 

These children are her worries now. She kneels by Aemond's bed, her fingers pressed against his sweet little face. She cradles his cheek, smiling at his soft huffs of air, his fluttering eyelashes. He looked so peaceful, and Alicent wished so dearly to preserve that great peace in him. No longer did she possess that for herself. Her eyes close themselves as she reflects on days prior. 

_ ("Do you think he truly did it?"  _ Viserys had whispered into her hair, his fingers intertwined with hers. She had placed her head against his chest, her free hand resting against his cheek.  _ "Do think the rumors against her are true?" _

At the time, she had diplomatically appealed to him that she was not involved enough to confirm, to  _ know  _ for certain. " _ Of course not, my love."  _ She had replied back.  _ "I believe them to be untrue, husband, for you know your brother does and says much to hurt both myself and you out of cruelness and spite." _ )

But now? As she had time to think it through?

_ Yes,  _ Alicent thinks unkindly, for she knows Daemon Targaryen and his miserable nature.  _ Yes, because he sees opportunity, and he sees it in the form of an impressionable young woman. And he will take what he wants.  _ For he had once seen it in Alicent, he had seen her position at court, her own ambitions, and her deepest desires for love. And Daemon had easily taken advantage of that weakness, that small nerve inside of her that he could twist and turn until she was burned by his flames. Until she looked upon him with the fire burning inside of her, until she was aflame with his ideals and her own, until he  _ almost  _ persuaded her to let him take her to wife and make her his queen.

So yes, she was sure that he took Rhaenyra to bed, if only to spite his brother and Alicent, if only to prove he could. Perhaps he truly did manage to take her to his most loved Silk Street, letting her flounce around with harlots, and teaching her to get on her knees with a cock in her mouth--

The thought made her ill to her stomach, unable to understand how a girl as high ranked as Rhaenyra could possibly have given her maidenhead to a married man such as Daemon Targaryen. When offered the same thing, Alicent had venomously refused as a slight against her honor, astute enough to realize a highborn woman's virtue was amongst her most valued skills. For Rhaenyra to give it so  _ freely _ , she must assume that as queen she will be forgiven her tresspasses and dishonors. 

_ ("I have asked him many a time to stop, but he-- he simply does not listen to me. I've been too lax on him, much too kind. He's cold to you, my wife, and makes jests at your expense. And my own daughter laughs with him-- at the unkind things said about her own brothers and sister!" _ )

Oh Alicent had could have driven a dagger straight into Daemon's chest that day when he was welcomed back into King's Landing with Viserys's kisses upon his cheeks and a crown atop his head. She could have slewn Rhaenyra too, for she had cheered loudly at his return, with his little trinkets to her on her hands and neck.  As if it were not miserable enough that Ser Criston Cole humiliated her brother and cousins in that tourney, she was forced to stare down at the hateful eyes of Daemon Targaryen which turned loving only when it was upon her good daughter. 

For Rhaenyra was the only thing to catch his eye, and now Alicent knew the reason for it. Men want many things, and most of the time they want the prettiest things. And Daemon wanted Rhaenyra and he wanted to hurt Alicent. Those were forgiveable, or tolerable at the least, but then the pair insulted her her childre .

She had heard them say harsh things about her  _ children _ , about her own dear Helaena. How could one insult such a small, insecure girl such as the Princess? For all her plainess, Helaena was a good natured child much beloved by the court and by the smallfolk. 

( _ "Greens and blacks, greens and blacks. I have enough to worry about without my brother doing such things-- Septon Eustace advises me against executing him, but I wished so much to do so, Alice. By the Gods, when he asked me for her…" _ He had stopped then, simply burying his face in her fading brown hair, just breathing loudly.)

Aemond sighs softly, his little fists clenching, his pudgy nose wrinkling. He twists away from her, head turning on the pillow into a more comfortable position. This, this moment, this child was why she wished to be Alicent the Peaceful, for it would be her little ones to be caught in the crossfire of hatred and deceit. Her advice to Viserys echoes unkindly in her mind.  _ Exile him then, my love, and send him as far as his kingdom goes. Let us think no more of him. Rhaenyra will be distraught, of course, but she will learn in time that such behaviors have consequences. _

Oh yes, she truly would, for such a loose woman had no place upon the throne, and Alicent was keen on having her removed from it. No longer did Rhaenyra bring her any fond memories or feelings, for she had allied herself with Daemon, and such was a dangerous combination. Two heirs, two threats, two Targaryens with fire in their veins and royal blood to be shared through the womb and seed. It terrified her beyond compare, beyond her own paranoia into something strong as steel. It was true--  _ Oh the Gods knew it true!  _

"Mama?" 

She peers down at those fluttering eyelashes, at those exhausted amethyst eyes, and Alicent smiles widely. For his eyes were Aemond's most beautiful, enchanting feature to behold. They shimmered always with fierce emotion, appearing to lighten and darken into different shades each time she looked upon him.

"Back to sleep, my love." She murmurs quietly, soothingly. "Mama is here. Mama will make the bad things go away." 

His beautiful eyes close again. 

**____ **

 

_ (My Own Daughter,  _

_ How should I begin such a letter as this? You've not responded to any of my others, no matter how much sense I manage to put into them. I've heard all that has happened at Court through what little your brother will tell me and what your uncle informs me of… _

_ Remember well, WE have friends at court that love us dearly and known who their rightful heir ought to be. Those friends keep me in my knowledge. I know how you feel, how desperately you have fallen into your delusions of friendship and goodwill with that Targaryen child, but she will show you no mercy. Nor will her newest conquest, the Flea Bottom King. There will be no peace with that man nor with his young whore. If you truly care for your children, prepare your allies to take what belongs to your son. What peace can be found in such times?  _

_ You can scheme all you want, plan all you want, find small victories and cling to them like a child to a toy, but you won't find what you're looking for. You'll fail and win and everything in between, but you'll be alone no matter what.  _

_ Remember, my daughter, I am your only true ally and confidant. Invite me again to court so I may guide you again.  _

_ Your Father, _

_ Otto Hightower _

~~_ Hand of the _ ~~

_ Brother of Lord Hightower) _

**____ **

 

She tries despite herself, desperately and with a touch of hysterics. She  _ tries _ to find a peace, to bring her daughter back into her arms and heart, to find forgiveness for her transgressions against her family. 

But Rhaenyra will not be swayed by her acts of goodwill, of her charities and of her extended invitations. She, along with her friends at court, proudly wear skirts of black velvet with red trim in Targaryen fashion. It was soon after she begins to see those black skirts (dark as a burnt corpse) that she begins to realize Jeyne Cuy and Janice Tully have traces of green in their gowns, and her nightmares become more and more pronounced as they slowly come true.  _ Blacks and greens, blacks and greens, it drove them closer each day to death's tight grip.  _ Factions began to draw out, and Alicent could not repair the rifts between herself and her daughter. It was as if their relationship was like softened ice as Spring came quickly, with just one crack it began to splinter apart until nothing remained.

Rhaenyra forgave her not for encouraging her uncle's exile, though she did  _ not  _ see how Alicent chose a better path than to shed his blood. She has been swayed to spare his life, rather than let her husband damn himself as a kinslayer, but Rhaenyra seemed either blind to the truth or unable to find any goodness in herself to give to her good mother. 

Alicent  _ tries _ . She invites Rhaenyra to private audiences as often as she can manage with three children and many courtly duties. Her husband's court was that of grandeur and laughter, but it did not come easily. For Alicent was herself in charge of these events, planning carefully the many celebrations. The happiness and comfort of the Realm were her greatest duty and desire. But still she sets aside some of her duties in order to clear precious time to dedicate to the girl.

Rhaenyra refuses each invitation, no longer bothering herself or her noble ladies with finding an adequate excuse for her absence. Instead, her outright refusal comes from a lowly chambermaid without a reason, a disrespect to the Queen. 

_ Alicent the Peaceful _ , she whispers to herself. She tries gifts to soften the girl, silk ribbons of red and black for her hair. Such were things she knew Rhaenyra adored just years ago. Barrels of Arbor Gold are produced from the Queen's own private stores and sent to the girl. Nothing, not even a message of thanks is sent back to her. Only contempt and silence, stares of distaste when they meet in the halls. No peace will be found between the two, Alicent thinks fearfully when she hears the laughter of her husband's eldest daughter. 

In her arms are quilts of white and red, the lesser of two colors, with much more forgiving meaning than black and green. Secondary colorings of two former friends, and Alicent's final gifts. 

"When I am Queen," Rhaenyra says, genuine in tone, speaking to an unknown woman. Alicent stands frozen,  outside of the girl's chambers, privy to information that would be gossiped in a few hours in any case. "I shall have my Uncle as my Hand, and you, my lady, will be my closest companion. Perhaps even my Master of Whispers. Who know?"

"Oh thank you, Your  _ Grace _ .

The laughter continues. Alicent stands unmoving, mind reeling.  _ For peace, for peace _ , she reminds herself, though her body moves of its own accord back to the Great Hall that connects their chambers. The fire sizzles and crackles with renewed strength when she throws the commissioned quilt into the flames, and Alicent marches back towards her rooms. She ought to have remembered better, to have reminded herself to keep close her fears, to tuck them into her mind to never forget, for she knew deep down that Rhaenyra's words  _ always  _ to be false. Any promises made to Aegon as a babe proved false, as she chose instead to unite with Daemon.

_ My son will be king _ , Alicent decides firmly, hands trembling with great emotion.  _ No matter the consequences to myself, he will be King.  _

But it would be done the correct way, a model of what a proper Queen ought to do. Perhaps then Rhaenyra would  _ learn.  _

**_________ **

 

_ Rhaenyra's words spit off her tongue like venom from a snake, "That boy ought to be interrogated!"  _

_ "That boy ought to have his eye torn out for what he has done!" Alicent snarls back, grasping at her son's thin shoulders. "I'll do it myself if given the chance." _

_ "Put your hands on my child," Rhaenyra says hotly, her hand thrown out to keep Luke away from the older woman. "And I will see to it you have no hands."  _

_ Alicent smiles, "Threaten me again, dear sweet daughter, my own daughter, and you'll lose the tongue you so like to...use. I wonder who it was on when your sons decided to sneak out of their chambers." Her fingers tightened again over her boy, and she whispers into his ears to flee. Aemond does, slowly and resentful in the way he stares at Rhaenyra, and he's gone quick. Luke follows after, fleeing in the opposite direction.  _

_ "Try it." Rhaenyra challenges tauntingly. "You will do nothing, as you always have. Don't do anything you might regret, dear mother." _

_ Alicent straightens her back, narrowing her eyes. She is a queen, a true queen, a Targaryen's wife, mother, and queen. She will not be talked down to by her inferior. In High Valyrian, so it may be private to any lingering ears nearby, she murmurs. "Eminna ānogar syt bisa."  _

_ (I will have blood for this.) _

_ "You will try." Rhaenyra replies, shaking her head. "But it is my boy, my Jace, that will the King after my death, after my reign." _

_ "Oh?" Alicent replies, surprise crossing her elegant features. "You still believe you will be queen?"  _

 

**_________ **

 

**_113 AC_ **

 

Her plans are hastily pulled together by a woman without any sleep, and morphed into something quite meticulous. 

Because she has such a great love for her son, her little Aegon, for her husband (of whom she shall strive to never upset), and for her future title.  _ Alicent the Peaceful, the woman of the people, Alysanne's successor--  _ it all jumbled up in her exhaustion-stricken mind. And she  _ tries _ . Desperately. In all things. 

She tries so hard to keep her fingers on the Throne, no matter how the paranoia and stress claws at her insides, at her soul. She tries so desperately, so miserably that she thinks perhaps life would be well. Lets the warmth of the sun settle onto her skin when she strolls the grand gardens, lets her children's laughter fill her and keep her content. Fear flees her as easily as sleep does. She's either healed by her hopes or so broken beyond recognition that she has no agony and terror left to spill out. 

And so Alicent plans and schemes and finds a solution. And so she waits, she waits until Court has concluded for the evening and morphed into the beginnings of a feast. She waits, exhausted but not quite tired, until her husband has had his fill. That takes much longer than it had previously, but he was much larger than he had been previously. Often, after feasting in fruits and boar and veal, he often retires to his chambers, asking only for his wife to attend him. Alicent waits and waits, ignores the minstrels that sing of her and of her great beauty, ignores that agonizingly sad song  _ Alysanne _ , and pretends she is alright. For it alright now, to have a plan. She is not afraid. She has found a good plan. 

And so, when he retires, she goes with him. Undresses him and runs scented oils over his skin, over old scars and new pale pink lines where his body stretches to accommodate the new layer of fat. She puts on him a night shirt, freshly laundered and sewn by her own hand. 

"My Lord Husband," She says gently, always the good-mannered wife, always the Queen. "I have a petition for you, my love." 

"If I can manage it, it will be done for you, Alice." Viserys beams, leaning up to kiss her cheek. His kisses were still soft, still unimaginably warm and still made her heart flutter. 

"I believe Rhaenyra should be married. I had many options of groom when I was a girl her age. It ought to be done early, less she become an old maid." 

"An old maid at sixteen?"

Alicent laughs, "Oh hush, my love. You know what I mean. Women blossom much younger, and she...she blooms in a different shade of rose than most other women. A husband would do her good. Let her flourish instead of wilt."

"And I presume you to have one in mind, my beautiful wife?" 

"Oh yes." Alicent smiles, wide and true. For it had been the first smile she had managed since Daemon had come back to court. Even after his exile, her happiness never truly returned, but it had now. It would all be smoothed over. It was a sensible thing, something even her father would agree with. "I have tried, so very hard, to immerse myself into becoming a Targaryen since I was first your bride. I learned High Valyrian, I have touched the dragon of my son and learned not to fear it. And I think we ought to continue in that fashion-- Targaryens have wed brother to sister for centuries." 

Viserys has a sudden moment of understanding. "Please do not say it, Alicent." 

"My son should marry your daughter. There cannot be two heirs to the throne-- no, no, there has never been two heirs."

"I do  _ not  _ have two heirs, Alicent. I have only one."

"Yes, you do! However, this way, they are Prince and Princess of Dragonstone respectively. A King and Queen. I have read so many books about Visenya and Rhaenys, they were never any less than Aegon. They could be interpreted as queens in their own right, they even held separate courts. Neither of them would lose their proper stations. There would be no difference between them."

Viserys rubs his face, "You are not-- I cannot believe how desperate you are to have your own blood upon that throne." 

"It is a peaceful solution. Your court has come to greens and blacks, for many know a son is fit to rule if born truly. I did ask for this break, but it came all the same. And I intend to heal it." 

"No." 

"Husband--"

"She is ten years his elder." 

"Visenya was older than Aegon." 

"I said  _ no _ . Just because his name is Aegon does  _ not  _ mean she will be his Visenya. They cannot stand each other-- by the Gods, perhaps they even hate each other."

Alicent cries out, "You don't understand."

He stands, though it takes much more effort than it had previously. His hands pressed hard against the oak of the chair, he forces himself up. A part of her has come to despise him for  _ that _ , for how easily he lets himself become fat and content. How easily he gives himself to comfort and worries not about the future of his children. Is he blind? Does he truly not  _ see _ ? 

"No!" He bellows. "No, you don't understand. The difference between King and Queen, Alicent, is that when a King says no, it means no. I will not change my mind for your own selfish endeavors."

Alicemt gasps sharply, holding a hand across her mouth to contain the scream that wishes to tear out of her chest. How dare he--  _ Oh you stupid man! Stupid, foolish, unkind man! How cruel was he to her. How can he not see or understand? _ She takes a step back, hands clenching unkindly into fists. Tears burned her eyes, but she does not shed them. For such an act would be a weakness that she had grown out of as a young child when her mother died. 

"Do  _ not _ ." She says sharply. "Do not come to my bed this night or any other. I cannot bear the sight of you." 

And then she goes. 

 

**____ **

 

"Janice," Alicent says kindly to the Tully woman. "Janice, have you ever given thought to whom you might marry?" 

"I have, Your Grace. I think all girls dream of their future husband." The Tully woman blushes, hiding the smile in her eyes with a demure tilt of her head. 

"Do you someone in mind? I know you have an older sister-- I imagine she has already been wed to the most eligible bachelor in the Riverlands."

"No, I have nobody in mind. I wouldn't want to get my hopes up." Janice replies steadily, though confusion filters through her eyes. She pulls nervously at the ribbons of her skirt, and Alicent grabs her hand. Gingerly strokes her thumb over the soft flesh. "If I may ask why, Queen Alicent?" 

"Oh just wondering." Alicent replies, smiling. She takes a sip of her wine with her other hand, continuing to hold the woman's. "Actually, no, I have a reason. You see, I have a potential husband in mind for you. You're so pretty. I'd hate for you to get a second best husband. Not when your grandfather has always been so  _ loyal _ to Viserys and his line." 

"I--I thank you, Your Grace, but it is too much. Honestly, I--"

"His name is Tyland. Tyland Lannister. He's been made Master of Ships, on my recommendation. His older brother, unfortunately is already married, but he has no wife. Not that it should matter much, they're twins anyway. Both are handsome." 

"I've seen him. At court." Janice babbles, squeezing tight her queen's hand. A grin overtakes that pretty face, and she speaks with a slight impediment. "And by the Gods is he handsome-- oh so much so! But he would never marry me. I'm not so pretty and not so educated." 

"Oh you're pretty enough, Janice. I could whisper in the King's ear that  _ perhaps _ this marriage should take place quickly. But I would need a favor in return, or maybe not a favor. That would imply I'm using you. More of gratitude to me. Simply write to your father, Lord Grover Tully, and remind him of his choice to support the eldest male heir in the Great Council. And remind him of my great love and gratitude. Can you do that?" 

Janice stands quickly, nodding. "Oh yes, Your Grace, with pleasure. True pleasure. Father will be delighted. I'll do so immediately. Maybe I be excused?" 

"Of course." 

And with a curtsy, the lady scampers from the room, half-tripping over her skirts. It takes a long moment for the Queen to hear the doors open and slam shut, to hear the footsteps. From behind her, she hears a tapestry be moved and soft whispers of steps. 

"Eavesdropping, Jeyne?" 

Jeyne sits beside her after a quick bow, and stares at her for a very long moment. "You've made promises for good marriages to every lady in your service. And asked them all for the same favor." She says for a moment. "What's happening, Your Grace?" 

"Jeyne," Alicent smiles widely. "You're my closest friend and my most loyal servant. And you know already what I prepare for. Father has his allies, and I have mine." 

"Not every lord has a daughter." 

"No, not every lord has a daughter to persuade. But they had ugly, fat sons that need good matches. And they have greed. All men have greed."

"And what of the men with enough to satisfy themselves? Men like Lord Baratheon?" 

"Lucky for me, he has daughters. And I have sons. It makes sense."

Jeyne Cuy hesitates, "Why...I don't understand why you're doing this, Queen Alicent. I thought you wanted to be peaceful. Making allies like  _ this _ . It doesn't seem peaceful at all." And her eyes meet her Queen's in a confident way that Janice Tully has never managed. 

"Because I tried. I tried and then I realized what peace actually is. It cannot be attained if my children are at risk. Peace is my little girl's safety. My sons' safety. That is peace. And I will do what I must for it." 

And she had truly  _ tried _ . She had offered her son's hand to a girl that she had grown to despise. She had realized the only way to keep Daemon away, to keep him in his throne of seaweed and false crowns, was to cement his loss. To make sure there was no confusion who the true heir was, and it sure as the Seven Hells was  _ not  _ him. 

It made so much sense to marry Aegon and Rhaenyra. The girl would be put away from her disastrous, vengeful uncle. She would still have the Throne, and she would be Queen, though more a consort than a true one. And her Aegon would be the King, as he was meant to be. It would bring together the divided factions, heal whatever had broken. It kept her fear at bay, for Rhaenyra would not have reason to kill her brother for the throne if she still sat upon it. And Aegon would hold enough power to protect himself and his siblings. 

It made sense. But Viserys had refused. He had refused and now her children were at risk. For Rhaenyra would whore herself to Daemon, and what cruelness the girl lacked, her uncle would fulfill without hesitation. They would not spare her sons. For they were trueborn and  _ good _ , and Daemon will find some pretext to put them all to death. Perhaps even put her daughter to death, though her claim was lesser. 

Fear returned. Fear made her panicked and paranoid. Fear turned her into a woman she did not recognize. 

And it would be Fear that ultimately killed her, she knew. 

**____ **

 

"I will  _ not  _ do it."

"Rhaenyra, sweetling, please." 

"I will not marry  _ that  _ man. My half brothers would be more to his taste than I! You know what he is." 

Before her husband could speak another word, Alicent interrupts. "He's a fine man and the heir to Driftmark, my sweet daughter. You'll do well to marry him." Her own daughter, Helaena, lays in her arms. The child had come down with a slight fever and refused to be parted with her mother as she sniffled. "He's Targaryen as well, if that eases your mind any. Half, just like your mother." 

Rhaenyra frowns, "It does  _ not _ ." 

"I'm sorry to hear, but it's still a fine match. Come now, sweet girl, I hear he's very handsome." 

"Then you ought to save him for your own daughter. My own  _ sweet  _ sister."

Alicent holds her head higher, stroking her daughter's beautiful silvery hair. The girl huffed, burying her face in her mother's gown. "Nonsense. I only want what's best for you." 

Rhaenyra's fury was a beautiful thing, for once Alicent had tried so greatly to avoid it. She had always been sweet to the Princess to avoid her temper, but what did such pleasantries matter now? Let her be angry! She can be angry all the way to Driftmark. Perhaps Alicent had not gotten her good daughter the groom she had wanted once, but this was truly second best. It had been her to suggest it to the small council, with whom she held great power still, and when she spoke, they  _ listened _ . 

Everyone  _ knew _ of Laenor Velaryon's perversions.  Everyone knew how he gazed upon handsome men, how he avoided the topic of women in both conversation and in marriage proposals. How his eyes never once went to a beautiful woman, but could not be torn from a beautiful man. 

It was an insult to Rhaenyra, but it did heal the gaping wound that was their relationship with House Velaryon. It makes amends, and that is what Alicent will say when asked about it. 

(She  _ will not say  _ that the marriage was in her favor. She will not say how gleeful she was to know that Laenor would father  _ no  _ children with Rhaenyra for his cock would still be down a handsome young man's throat.)

"I will not marry him." Rhaenyra shouts, but keeps her gaze focused squarely on Alicent. "And you cannot make me." Her voice lowers, and she turns around. "Come, Criston, we go.  _ Now _ ." 

And with her most loyal guard behind her, Rhaenyra leaves. 

Alicent remains smiling all the same. 

It feels like a victory.

 

**_________ **

 

_ Alicent cries out, "You would let them get away with this?"  _

_ "Let them get away with what?"  _

_ "Mutilating my son?" _

_ "Our son."  _

_ "Mine." Alicent replies hotly, circling the man's throne, eyes narrowing into sharps of broken emerald. Her fingers clenched tightly against the folded fan in her hands, made of feathers and softened wood liners. It was a gift to appease her from Rhaenyra, a false apology. "My son, for if he was your son, you ought to have defended him."  _

_ Viserys sighs, huffing for breath. Once, once long ago, his overindugence hadn't upset her at all. It had meant he had coin enough to indulge, but now it made her ill to look at. She resented it.  _

_ "He attacked them as much as they attacked him. He went after a little boy." _

_ She throws the fan across the room, satisfied at the way the wood snapped and black feathers flew. They were crow's feathers, black as night.  "Aemond is a little boy."  _

_ Viserys continues, "He insulted them falsely. Accused his sister of high treason by his very words."  _

_ "So he repeats what his older brother says-- does that mean he ought to have his eye gouged out by a blade? Will you cut out his tongue if he says it again? Are those boys more important than your own?" Alicent argues back, more of a dragon than her husband had ever been. For dragons were fierce and strong, the dread of the old kings, the weapon of a conqueror, and they did not relent. They did not fear. They protected their own, their clutch and their riders, and Alicent protects her own.  _

_ "Alicent please--" _

_ "You are a coward. You are afraid of her anger, of her hatred for you. But what do you fear of your other children? Of me? Do you think I can love a man that does such a thing as defend his son's mutilator?" _

_ Viserys looks stricken, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. He stands quickly as he can manage, stumbling to his feet. Hands grasping for her, but she flees away from his touch. Pregnancy had done little to change her figure, and she remained as slender as she had once been years ago. Slow as Viserys was and big too, he couldn't hope to touch her without her consent. _

_ "Do you not love me anymore, Alice?"  _

_ No, not quite as much as she once did. For his sunshine had turned to grey skies, no longer warm against her soul, no longer an ointment for a wound. His love had bled her dry with the birth of each babe, made her weak where once she had been strong. Her love for her children overtook whatever she had felt for him, and nothing more remained steady enough to give to him. For once, she had been a strong stone tower, and now she was a dragon. A true dragon, like she wished to be as a little girl when she dreamed of Rhaenys and Visenya, queens among queens, and of whom she wished to emulate. And dragons burned and raged and killed.  _

_ Things that Alicent had never dreamed of, things too horrific to imagine, and she has hardened because now she knows why they chose Fire and Blood.  _

_ Viserys had done many things to enrage her, things that had upset her beyond belief. He had forgiven his brother years ago, refused her marriage proposal for Aegon and Rhaenyra years ago, refused to change the line of succession, forced her youngest son Daeron to share a wet nurse with Rhaenyra's bastard. But never had he done something so unforgivable as let that little cunt do what she pleased to Alicent's children.  _

_ She wanted blood for it. Needed blood for it. Rhaenyra's, her bastard's, even her husband's. She wanted-- no needed vengeance. Someone ought to pay for the injustices done to all of her children. Aegon for his throne, Helaena for the cruel words said about her, Aemond for his eye, and Daeron for his time stolen away to be around that bastard son of Rhaenyra. _

_ "I love you as much as I did when I first met you." _

_ Little by little, hints of attraction, moments of fluttering hearts. Nothing made of stone, nothing hard and solid.  _

_ "We apologized. We all apologized. Each of us to each other, child to child. We need to let it go. We have to-- for the sake of family. We have to, Alice." _

_ Alicent stares at him for a long moment. Then releases a breath she did not know what held inside, shaking her head.  _

_ "You're right, husband." Alicent says gently, her fury rescinding back into herself. It faded away into steam, such as when a blacksmith set his irons into water, hissing and fighting to keep the heat. She saves it, conserves it, waits to use her anger to her advantage later. For she is Otto Hightower's daughter, and she has knowledge. And she knows all the best warrior saved their anger for the battlefield. As she will. "We said our apologies. You're absolutely right." _

_ (Apologies only Viserys was foolish enough to believe.) _

 

**_________ **

 

**_114 AC_ **

 

Alicent smiles at the wedding. She smiles at the feast following. 

And she does the same at the tourney 

"Ser Criston?" She says gently. Beside her, she feels Rhaenyra's eyes upon her, upon him. The man, with his night black hair and fine green eyes, comes when she calls. He leans his down, listens to her whispers. 

"You once bested Daemon Targaryen at a jousting and melee." She says softly, a smile pulling at the end of her lips. "But he's not here, is he? No, no just the son of Rhaenys Targaryen and his lover. Do you suppose you could best them both?"

Ser Criston smiles, wide and charming. There's bitterness there, in his eyes, in the edges of smile, and he bows to her. 

"If I could your favor, Milady, I'm sure I could manage."

"Then you should have it." 

She reaches her arm out, admiring the green ribbon on her wrist, examining it for a long moment. Then, pulling on the end, it comes off quick and easy, falling apart from her arm. With eyes upon her from all directions, Alicent ties it to Ser Criston's sword. 

"Serve me well, Ser Criston." 

"Of course, Your Grace." 

Alicent closes her eyes for a moment. Years and years ago, she had wept profusely it was known that Rhaenys Targaryen searched for a strong bride for Laenor Velaryon. ( _ And who could be stronger than a Hightower? _ ) Now, now it all seemed so distant and trivial, like a lifetime had come and gone round again. 

"You look beautiful, Rhaenyra." Alicent says cheerfully. She looks across the crowds, smiling at the assortment of green petticoats and ribbons and hats and vests worn by the nobles of Court. "You know, I've been told Targaryens dress their brides in black, but I've always thought that black was better for funeral." 

Rhaenyra stares back at her, dressed in a wedding gown of black and red, and raises her goblet high in the air. She does not bow her head, but continues with her toasting gesture, her eyes narrowing. Almost like a challenge to her enemy, and Alicent stares straight back at her. They look into each other then, peeling away layers and fears and presenting what little emotions remain.

"Queen Alicent." Rhaenyra says. 

"Princess Rhaenyra." Alicent says back.

_ A princess and a queen.  _

 

It sounds like a curse. 

 


End file.
